


Legitimate Expectations

by champagneleftie



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie/pseuds/champagneleftie
Summary: Maybe there’s a world where grown men can wear bandanas and skinny jeans and like Gabrielle and be fine, but it’s not Isak’s. In Isak’s world men wear suits and tame their hair and listen to hip hop, or rock, or classical music – he’s pretty sure those are the only options – and it’s comfortable, and Isak knows how it works.It's a good time to be Isak Valtersen. The up-and-coming Norwegian authority on matters of freedom of press, several Supreme Court wins already on his resume - and still barely thirty. He's carved out a place in the world that he never thought he'd reach, but sometimes that place just feels a little too small and rigid.Enter Even.





	1. Adrian Eksett

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited about this! This is my most ambitious fic ever, and I really hope you like it. 
> 
> This is what you get when you combine my love for Skam with my love for the law - Isak the legal nerd. 
> 
> Eternal love for my best bud, beta and cheerleader Anna <3

”Are you” – Isak swallows a _fucking –_ “kidding me?”

The desk clerk glances up from her computer, phone still at her ear, clearly very done with all this nonsense and ready to go home and get into bed.

The thing is, so is _Isak_. He is supposed to be in his new bed, with just the perfect level of stiffness, snuggled under his heavy, cool feather duvet _at this very moment_ – and he is the _fucking customer_ , so she can really just keep her condescension to herself, thanks.

This is not how he pictured this day ending – standing in a seemingly never ending line to the gate that his flight was supposed to have departed from four hours ago, suit wrinkled, curls betraying him and escaping from his carefully tamed, perfectly professional hairdo. He is supposed to be asleep. He needs to be asleep. Instead, he’s spent the evening watching the departure time be pushed forward twenty minutes, and then forty-five, then an hour and a half, and finally, as the message on the screen changed from _delayed_ to _canceled._ And all because of a little snow. Fucking France.

He squares his shoulders and tries to summon his most authoritative tone and glare, which is slightly more difficult than usual, seeing as the clock is nearing midnight and he’s speaking English.

“Now, you are going to listen to me. I am a lawyer. I know my rights. And I know that you _have_ to offer to reroute me, not just reimburse me. _And_ you need to get me a hotel room.”

The girl suppresses an eye roll. Isak doubles down and takes out his phone.

“Do you want me to show you the applicable EU regulation on air passenger rights?”

Somewhere behind Isak someone snorts. The girl sighs and types aggressively on her computer. Isak continues to glare. Finally, she hands him a boarding card and a printout of a hotel booking.

“Boarding starts at 5:45 am tomorrow,” she tells him, before turning pointedly to the man waiting next in line. “Hello sir, how may I help you?”

Isak walks away from the desk. The tall guy next in line smirks and waggles his eyebrows at him as he passes. Out of all the people vying for the attentions of the clerk, he is the only one not scowling.  

“Hello!” As he leaves, Isak hears the guy greet the clerk cheerily. “Rough night?”

*

Will this hotel shuttle ever leave? Isak should have taken a taxi. He really should have. He could probably have expensed it. Or gotten the airline to pay for it. It’s not specifically in the regulation, he doesn’t think – he’ll have to ask Ingrid, she’s the one with the EU law expertise – but surely there’s some way to get it in there. Damages because of breach of contract, maybe? Or would this be covered by force majeure exceptions? Isak really doesn’t know anything about air passenger rights other than what any moderately aware person could find out in five minutes, but the desk clerk didn’t need to know that. Some legal terms, an EU regulation or two – they’re generally pretty useful tools to be able to bust out when the world doesn’t go your way. Most people are at least a bit intimidated when you start throwing case law around, seemingly off the top of your head.

It’s been a long day. Isak only landed in Strasbourg this morning, and went directly to the conference and the panel in which he was participating. Since then, the day’s been a blur of names and titles. His briefcase is stuffed full of business cards that he knows he’ll probably never look at again. But he’s happy. He is. He’s worked hard for this – to be a name, someone people recognize, come to hear speak. Trust. Congratulate on specific, landmark cases. To be the person who people specifically seek out when they need representation in a case concerning freedom of press. The up-and-coming Norwegian authority on the subject, with several Supreme Court wins already on his resume, and still barely thirty. It’s a good time to be Isak Valtersen.

Except for the fact that this shuttle will apparently never leave.

The driver sighs into the bus intercom.

“I’m sorry, everyone, we’re still waiting for one more guest, so we’ll be here a little while longer.”

At least the seat next to him is unoccupied. Isak burrows deeper into his chair, takes out his phone and untangles his headphones. He probably should have texted and updated his time of arrival. He really should have. But it’s one in the morning now and… he’ll just do it tomorrow. Definitely.

Instead, he opens his e-mail app and clicks the pen icon.

 

 

> **From:** isak.valtersen@mna.no
> 
> **To:** william.magnusson@mna.no
> 
> **CC:** eva.kviig-mohn@mna.no
> 
> **Subject** : Canceled flight
> 
> Hey guys,
> 
> My flight was canceled due to snow here in Strasbourg, so I’ll be in after lunch tomorrow. Can we push our meeting to 14?
> 
> /Isak
> 
>  
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Isak Valtersen
> 
> _Advokat_
> 
> _Magnusson & Nørrstelien Advokatfirma _

 

William and Eva won’t be the least surprised to see an e-mail from him timestamped 01:07.

At last, the door to the shuttle slides open. Isak hears one of the teenagers at the front cheer silently, and their mother shush them. The person flops into the seat next to Isak – _great –_ and stretches out his legs in front of him. Or tries to. Isak can rarely find a bus, or a plane, or a movie theater where his own legs can fit comfortably, but this guy’s are something else. Isak trails the legs, shoes to thighs. Who wears skinny jeans on a flight? And Isak does not have any natural style instincts (he’s been told) but he’s pretty sure it’s a rule that you don’t wear a denim jacket with jeans.

The guy clears his throat.

Isak looks up.

Oh.

It’s the smiley guy from the line. And he’s waggling his eyebrows, again, and smirking at Isak, again.

“Hey lawyer.”

“What?” How is this guy so perky at this time of night? And is Isak supposed to know him? “How do you know I’m a lawyer?”

The guy laughs, his smile filling his entire face, causing his eyes to disappear almost entirely. It sparks something in Isak's chest.

“You told the entire gate! I couldn’t believe you _actually_ pulled the lawyer card!”

Isak takes in the guy’s face. He has floppy blonde hair and huge blue eyes, and Isak has always liked guys with full, soft lips. In his hoodie, denim jacket and bandana he would have been exactly Isak’s type in high school – if Isak hadn’t been painfully closeted until the summer before university. The twinge of misplaced nostalgia caused by that thought may have something to do with Isak’s decision to put off going to bed for just a little while longer.

For 16 year old Isak’s sake.

*

They end up in the hotel bar. The guy begins their conversation by asking Isak why he is in Strasbourg, and Isak limits his answer to “work” before turning the question back at his companion, who smirks before answering that he’s been on vacation. Perfect. Travel is always good for small talk. Neutral. Safe. Impersonal. Who doesn’t like to travel? Well, Isak doesn't, but in general, the people he meets are more than happy to tell him about their latest weekend in London or their summer in Spain.

This guy is no exception. He’s been waxing poetically about his visit to Burma for a while now, and Isak is finding it hard to imagine anything more stressful than the crowded mess that the guy’s descriptions of Rangoon are making him picture. But then again, Isak finds all travel stressful, including the past summer’s charter trip to Mallorca, when he had barely left the hotel area. He just prefers staying at home, in Oslo, at work, where he knows the unwritten rules, knows what is expected of him. Work trips like this one are okay, because the rules are basically the same as at home – do your job, do it well. Be polite, and professional. Shake hands. Feign interest in other people. And airports are heaven – there are signs, and lines, and employees in uniform instructing the confused crowds. But just travelling for the fun of it… not Isak’s thing. He’d spent the entire week on Mallorca wondering if he was expected to talk to other people, nod at the other guests who he saw every day at the breakfast buffet and the pool and the again at dinner, or if the rules were the same as during his commute to work – ignore the fact that other people even exist, but keep up a force field so that you never have to touch another human being. As there had been significantly more alcohol involved on Mallorca than there is on his way to work, he has since guessed that the rules were possibly slightly different, and that there are probably a few families and couples in Norway who now consider him quite rude. As always, he only almost succeeds in stopping the thought from bothering him.

The guy is now telling a story of a nun he met at the Shwedagon pagoda. Isak spends his life trying to talk to as few people as possible, but from what he’s heard so far, it seems like this guy has the exact opposite problem. Isak has already heard of a tea shop owner, several small children, and the mother of the owner of the hotel where the guy stayed, and from the stories the guy is telling, it sounds like he considers them all to be his close friends now. Isak doesn’t understand where he finds the energy. Personally, he can barely manage to text Jonas on his birthday (which, he reminds himself, is in a few weeks. The very thought is draining).

And yet. There is something about this guy that makes Isak wish that he could have been there with him, could have met the cab driver who took him to Aung San Suu Kyi’s house and told him about the 8888 movement, talked to the stall owners at the Bogyoke market. Isak thinks it might be something to do with the guy’s eyes. Isak is used to intense stares – it comes with the career, he’s stared down and been stared down in many courtrooms by now, by other lawyers, witnesses, plaintiffs and claimants alike – but there is something in this man’s gaze that makes something shift inside of him, awakes a nervousness in his stomach that Isak’s spent years trying to get under control. He keeps having to break eye contact whenever he sips his drink, and look over the man’s shoulder, or out over the empty bar – just to regain control. Composure. It’s even worse when the guy smiles, like he’s doing now, causing electricity to run through Isak’s hands and up his arms. Isak’s had the time to look at him properly now, and this guy is definitely not just teenage Isak’s type. With every sip of his wine Isak can feel the desire to touch the guy grow – to run his fingers through his hair, stroke his face, kiss his lips. He’s pretty sure that that’s where this is going, but… not just yet.  

“You were listening to music on the shuttle?” the guy is asking now, having finally exhausted the subject of Burma and probably sensing that Isak, in his charcoal suit and nondescript tie, doesn’t have anything comparable to contribute.

“Oh! Yeah, N.W.A.”

The guy raises his eyebrows.

“Really? That’s… not what I would have guessed.”

Yeah, Isak probably wouldn’t have guessed that either, if he had just met himself. And to be honest, he doesn’t listen to them much anymore – just on nights like these, when he needs to channel his frustrations into something other than buzzing stress and annoyance.

“What would you have guessed?”

The guy appraises him, head cocked, an eyebrow raised. The electricity spreads to Isak’s shoulders and into his chest.

“Classical music maybe?” Then he smirks again. “Or maybe something completely unexpected, like Justin Bieber.”

“What? _Justin Bieber?”_ A tiny voice in the back of Isak’s head pipes up to tell him that his affront is maybe a bit _too_ exaggerated – but it makes the guy laugh, again, so at the moment, Isak doesn’t care. It’s not often that _he’s_ the one making someone laugh. He wants to savour the moment.

“What about you?” he asks instead, hoping that the guy will have as elaborate stories to accompany his taste in music as he did from his trips.

“Oh, I like Nas,” the guy answers, and Isak nods, because yeah, that checks out, this guy does look like he would like Nas.

Then the guy leans forwards, and his knees knock together with Isak’s, and Isak can smell the beer on his breath and a hint of cigarette smoke on his clothes as he puts his lips to Isak’s ear. He can hear the smile in his voice when he stage whispers:

“I’ll tell you a secret though. My absolute favorite is Gabrielle.”

Isak was not expecting _that._

“Really?”

“I just don’t believe in not liking something just because someone decided it’s uncool,” the guy shrugs, and that it some seriously pretentious reverse-hipster bullshit, but he actually seems to mean it.

Isak can not relate. Of course it matters what the world says is cool and uncool. It matters what the world deems professional, or good manners, or generally appropriate. And if you don’t know that – well, you’re pretty much fucked. Nobody knows that better than Isak. But maybe this guy’s world is different. Maybe there’s a world where grown men can wear bandanas and skinny jeans and like Gabrielle and be _fine,_  but it’s not Isak’s. In Isak’s world men wear suits and tame their hair and listen to hip hop, or rock, or classical music – he’s pretty sure those are the only options – and it’s comfortable, and Isak knows how it works. The very suggestion that it doesn’t _always_ work like that unnerves him. He is suddenly desperate for something to ground him in his own world again.

The guy has moved away from Isak’s ear, but he’s still sitting much closer than he was before, his knee between Isak’s legs. Isak can see soft blonde stubble on his cheek and that his lips are dry and chapped from the recent cold spell. The intensity of his gaze is still the same, and he’s looking Isak straight in the eye. This time, Isak doesn't look away.

_This_ is part of Isak’s world. These are rules he knows, and without thinking, he lets out a sigh of relief at the familiarity. The guy blinks, slowly, when Isak’s warm breath meets his cheek. Isak presses his thigh against the guy’s and feels him press back. Suiting wool against denim. He definitely knows where this is going now. Isak runs a thumb along the inner seam of the guy’s jeans, and feels him shudder, sees his leg twitch. Isak glances up through his thick lashes – he has done this enough times to have the look be instinct, now. More or less, anyway. He spreads his hand on the guy’s thigh, and watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. This is always thrilling – the sense of power that comes with being able to shift the entire vibe of a conversation, make confident men stutter and yearn. Isak smiles.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

The guy only nods, and when they stand up, he grabs Isak’s hand. Isak kind of wishes he hadn’t.

*

They take their time. The elevator rises slowly towards the ninth floor, and the guy won't stop touching Isak. His fingers stroke Isak's face, feather light, trace his cheekbones, his jaw, the curve of his eyebrows. He plays with the errant curl on Isak's forehead, the lone escapee from his well-styled lawyer hair. Underneath his fingers, Isak's nerve endings spark with electricity.

Isak has found his way to the guys sharp hip bones, the warm, smooth expanse of his stomach, the soft fuzz all leading him in one direction. He runs his fingers along the waistband of his jeans, savouring the novelty of it all. Skinny jeans. It’s been awhile since skinny jeans. Slacks. Chinos. Occasional running shorts or track suit pants. But very rarely skinny jeans. Isak teases himself by imagining what’s beneath them, what he’ll discover when they finally reach this man’s room and he peels them of his ass, his cock, his forever legs. Just the idea has him salivating. Isak looks up at the man through heavy eyelashes again and licks his lips. The guy doesn't meet his eyes, transfixed instead by Isak’s tongue. Isak licks his lips again – slowly, deliberately – and tilts his head back.

Isak's heart pounds as their lips meet, and he almost pulls away then and there, because _that isn’t supposed to happen._ But his rationality has abdicated, powerless to alcohol and desire, and so he stays. He stays, and he pushes, drives deeper, explores every ridge of the chapped lips with his tongue, coaxes them open. Takes.

The man moans as Isak grabs his ass, pulling them together so that any air between their bodies is extinguished. He buries his fingers in Isak's hair and pulls. _Yes._ A lot of guys are too careful – nervous, maybe, that Isak won't like it rough, ending up going too far in the opposite direction. It used to be worse when Isak was younger, looked sweeter – but it still happens. But _this_. _Yes. This._

The elevator continues, passing floors five, six, seven. The guy loses his bandana, and Isak discovers that he must not use any styling products, because his is some of the softest hair that Isak has ever sunk his fingers into. He can already feel a phantom of it brush his stomach, the insides of his thighs, as he pictures the guy’s full lips, red and swollen, around his dick.

They pull apart as the elevator halts at the ninth floor, both already out of breath, and the guy takes Isak’s hand again and pulls him towards his room. He is staring at Isak, drinking him in, and it’s too intense again. Isak should probably leave this here, because he knows, the second before the guy asks, standing with his key card poised, ready to open the door – he knows that they are not on the same page.

“What's your name?”

Isak is used to having the thoughts he wants crowded out of his brain by less desirable ideas. He is used to trying to tame feelings of inadequacy and the sense that he is a fraud at approximately this time of night. He is generally quite adept at it – has his tactics of loud, angry music, legal texts, and, occasionally, sleeping pills to get him through. He is less used to being so overcome with desire that his rational thoughts are crowded out by images of this man beneath him, panting, sweaty, unseeing, undone. And so despite knowing that he will most probably regret it in the morning, and will most definitely regret it by tomorrow night, he gives the same answer that he always gives, in moments that are objectively similar to this but in reality completely different, moments that he can barely recall after they’ve passed.

“Adrian Eksett.”

For a second, Isak swears he can see something shift in the man's eyes, a hint of uncertainty, a pull away from Isak – barely noticeable, but still.

Isak doesn't stop to find out what it is. Instead, he grabs the card and pushes the man to the door as it opens, pulling him down to his lips by his hair. And after a second, whatever was bothering the man seems to have passed. His hand in Isak's hair, which softened when Isak told him his name, is once again grabbing hungrily, pulling Isak's lips to his, allowing Isak to push him towards the bed, pull his jacket and hoodie and lastly t-shirt off him and starting the job of opening Isak's shirt, button by button. Any pause the name gave him seems to have evaporated in a cloud of desire.

Good. Isak is planning on making him forget not just Adrian’s name tonight, but his own as well.


	2. Magnusson & Nørrstelien Advokatfirma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I just want to say thank you for all the lovely comments, and kudos, and reblogs - I am just blown away by all the love <3 
> 
> Second of all - I've grappled with this, and I've decided to leave out a specific tag for now, because I don't want to reveal too much of the story in advance. But I will say that this Isak doesn't always make the best choices. It's very possible that I'm making way too big a deal out of this, but I'll put the tag in the end note if you want to be forewarned. 
> 
> And last, but in no way least, a shout out to my best friend and beta Anna, who is the wonderful-est <3

The vibrations of Isak's Apple watch wake him up at 3:30 a.m. The other man doesn't stir as he tiptoes around of the room, gathering up his clothes, his briefcase. He ties his tie in the elevator mirror and tries to fix his hair with the comb he (luckily) always carries with him.  

He looks like shit.

He looks like shit and it's obvious why.

He looks like shit and his head is pounding from the wine and the lack of sleep. Fuck, this was a bad idea. He has to start realising that he's not 22 anymore, that he can't act like this and still be fine the next morning, like he could at university. That having to perform at work on just two hours of sleep is not the same thing as sitting through a lecture with a hangover and then copying Julian’s notes.

He has four new text messages. Fuck. At least they’re texts and not Messenger, so he can put off dealing with them until he lands in Oslo and blame it on the fact that his phone was in flight mode. Maybe he’ll have woken up enough by then that composing an answer won’t seem quite so insurmountable. He buries his phone again, deep down in his briefcase.

Thankfully, boarding goes smoothly this time around, and soon, Isak is settled into his aisle seat in economy plus, going through the instructions to the wifi and watching the other passengers file past him towards the back of the plane. He takes at least a little pleasure in noticing that at least half of them look approximately as dead as he feels. Several parents are carrying sleeping children of varying ages aboard, and Isak breathes a sigh of relief when none of them have seats close to him. He barely has the patience for screaming brats on a good day.

A giggle from the flight attendant at the door causes Isak to look up.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re right on time!” he hears her chirp, and a familiar voice answers,

“Thanks for waiting for me!”

Great. Around the corner, the guy from last night appears, and Isak tries to be pleased with himself at the discovery that he’s just as hot in broad daylight as he was at one a.m. In fact, he looks much better than Isak feels, which just seems unfair.

Then the guy catches Isak’s eye, and winks.

Nope. Nope nope nope. There is absolutely no reason for him to be _winking_ at Isak. None at all. What part of Isak slipping out without waking him doesn’t he understand? Last night wasn’t the start of something. It was the complete story. Beginning, middle, end. And now they’re supposed to be ignoring each other’s existence. Isak frowns, and busies himself with pulling his laptop out of his briefcase, attempting to do just that. But as the man passes by his seat, Isak can feel fingers brushing over his shoulder.

*

When Isak finally enters his office a few minutes before two p.m., William is already there, waiting for him in one of his two visitors’ chairs. Leaning on Isak’s desk, obviously just wasting time, is Chris Schistad. He has no reason to be here, really – his thing is mergers and acquisitions, his office isn’t even on this floor. But somehow, despite m&a being one of the busiest groups at the firm, Chris always finds time to bother William – and by extension, Isak.

Isak nods his greetings to both of them as he hangs up his wet coat and unpacks his briefcase. The natural order of things in November should really be rain in France and snow in Norway, but the weather gods’ phone lines must have gotten twisted somehow, because the weather that greeted Isak upon his return to Oslo is some of the worst they’ve had this entire season. At least his office is dry and warm – and even office coffee is better than airplane coffee.

“You look like shit,” Chris comments, looking Isak up and down. William shoots him a look, and he corrects himself: “Terrible. You look terrible.”

“Hah. Thanks.” There’s a time and a place where Isak doesn't actually mind Chris that much. He’s fun. Funny. Great company at an after work or office party. He just… Isn't great at compartmentalizing. He behaves the same way at work as he does in any other situation, like there's no difference between a drunken night out and a partners’ meeting. And maybe to Chris there isn’t, but to Isak, the entire idea is completely alien.

Chris smirks and cocks an eyebrow.

“So – fun night?” Case in point – his tone leaves no room to doubt what he’s really asking.

Isak never really knows how to respond to questions like that, but he’s learned over time that the least awkward option is usually to just mirror the tone of whoever’s asking. So he cocks an eyebrow and smirks right back.

“You know I never kiss and tell.”

Chris guffaws at that and offers Isak a fist bump, which he accepts. William, however, rolls his eyes at them, and Isak feels a sting of shame. It’s not that William wouldn’t have done what he did last night – although, knowing William, he’d probably have found himself some cute stewardess or something – but he never lets it seep into the workday, not even when he's sleeping his way through each new group of junior lawyers. Isak knows that if he’s really going to make it in this world, he’d be better off mimicking William than Chris – but so far, he just hasn't found a way to summon that kind of aloofness in the face of Chris’ curiosity. The fact that Chris and William have known him since he was a skinny first year law student, terrified by all the unknown, unwritten codes of this brave new world, probably has something to do with that. Isak deems it likely that the biggest hole in his professional demeanor will probably forever be Chris-shaped.

“And the conference was good?” William asks. Isak silently thanks him for bringing the conversation around to more comfortable subjects.

Chris pushes himself off Isak’s desk.

“Aaand that’s my cue. See you around boys!”

He opens the door to reveal Eva, balancing her laptop, an overflowing manila folder, and a large cup of coffee, and his entire face lights up.

“Eva! You look very… _competent_ today.”

She grins back.

“Well, we can’t all get by on our pretty face, Chris.”

Her comeback is met with an exaggerated wink.

“Oh, but you definitely could.” Eva laughs brightly. Isak thinks she could also benefit from some compartmentalisation.

With Chris gone, the conversation finally turns to the actual topic for the afternoon’s meeting: the trial awaiting the three of them Monday morning. Eva opens the manila folder and starts spreading out pictures and magazine clippings on Isak’s desk. Crowds of people dressed in all colors of the rainbow. More and less famous faces glowing under colored lights. The grooms, arriving in an open boat, flanked by their friends. Isak sighs. This isn’t even _interesting_.

“I can’t believe they’re actually suing,” he grumbles. “They can’t possibly think they’ll win? They’re celebrities! This is what that _means._ ”

William hums in response. He’s heard it all before, many times by now. But Eva is still new enough that she looks fascinated, and that is enough for Isak.

“I mean, they’re literally _on a public beach._ What, did they think that everyone around them would suddenly go blind? And they’re citing Von Hannover?” He shuffles the papers a bit, looking for the specific, fucking _ludicrous_ argument that had infuriated him so much when he first read it.

“Listen to this! _The publication of the photos, taken without the permission of the applicants,_ _cannot be deemed to contribute to any debate of general interest to society despite the applicants being known to the public. When celebrating such a private moment as a wedding, the applicants have a legitimate expectation of privacy._ Like fuck they do! They’re out in public! If their privacy was so fucking important, they should have gotten married _inside._ ”

Isak is getting worked up, but this is fucking important. Democracy is at stake here! Okay, so maybe _Extra,_ the tabloid they’re representing, isn’t exactly a bastion of political debate, but it’s a matter of _principle._ So today it’s the wedding of some rapper and a documentary filmmaker – tomorrow it might be a politician accepting bribes. Limiting freedom of press is a slippery slope, and Isak isn’t about to let som b-list celebs ruin it.

“Who’s even representing them?” Isak is pretty sure that most of the lawyers he knows that focus on human rights issues would know better than to take on a case like this one. _Should_ know better. He turns to Eva, who looks a bit startled by his outburst. She’s still rotating through the various groups at the firm, and they’ve interacted on a few cases by now, but this is the first time she’s worked directly under Isak. It takes her a moment to find the name of the firm.

“Advokatfirma Bech Næsheim,” she reads. “And the lawyers are… Even Bech Næsheim and Noora Sætre.”

It’s only because Isak has spent many hours watching William under pressure – in the courtroom, at university, during poker nights – that he notices his jaw clench. And it's only because he's known him for almost ten years by now that he knows to look. To anyone else, William would probably appear completely unaffected. Eva certainly doesn't seem to have noticed anything.

“Do you know of them?” she asks neutrally. “I’ve never heard of the firm.”

Neither has Isak. It must be new. Or tiny. Or both.

“Noora was at university with… us. I’ve never heard of the other guy.” He tries to keep his voice even, tries to sound like she was just one of the hundreds of students they interacted with in one way or another during their years there. William doesn't contribute anything, choosing instead to flip through the photos again.

“And the other one?” Eva thankfully doesn’t dig. Isak shakes his head a little.

“Nope. New to me.”

With that, the topic is played out, and they can once again return to preparing the trial. They decided long ago that Isak will deliver the opening and closing arguments, while William will handle the interviews. They make a good team. Isak loves the law, how systematic it is, the patterns of it. How it all fits together, like pieces of a puzzle. That you can trace the lineages of arguments, how principles have been developed through case law over the decades, how everything has its place and context and _makes sense_. That is not William. William loves to charm, loves to smolder at the parties and witnesses, pull their stories out of them. He doesn't care for the finesse of the law – it is a means to an end, a frame for victory. William likes people – or rather, likes the games that people play. Isak knows that he wouldn’t be nearly as successful if it wasn’t for William. And William’s connections, his last name – they certainly don't hurt either.

It's late in the afternoon when they finally finish, and Isak desperately needs another coffee. He still has a few other projects that he needs to look over before he goes home – a general damages claim, originating in a leak of personal information (that really belongs to another lawyer in the media and IT law group, but Isak was thought to be able to give valuable input); a couple of draft arguments from the junior lawyers he oversees – and while he got through most of his inbox on the plane, he now has a dozen new e-mails to handle before he leaves. But first, coffee.

The good coffee machine is located by the reception, two floors down. Depending on Isak's mood, he either praises or curses this fact daily. When he is on a roll, writing so quickly he's nervous the keyboard will catch fire, the eleven minute break that getting new coffee requires is torture. Other days, like today, it is the highlight of his day – the perfect excuse to get away from his desk, stretch his legs, stop the words on his screen from jumping around in front of him.

He walks past offices filled with suit clad colleagues tapping away on their computers, talking on their phones, flipping through books and piles of paper. There's something incredibly satisfying about it. The order. The efficiency. He nods to Ingrid who rounds a corner with two of their interns, Emma and Maria, and she rolls her eyes at him behind their heads, clearly annoyed with them. Isak can't blame her – he’s had Emma assist on a case, and found her almost shockingly enthusiastic but not very thorough. He’s barely noticed Maria at all during the almost two months she's been with them, and while he knows that that’s probably worse for _her_ , career wise, he definitely prefers it.

Isak watches the coffee machine pour his cappuccino, with an extra shot of espresso just to get through the rest of the day, while he scrolls idly through his Facebook feed. The number of updates that interest him seem to lessen with every day. He can't tell if it’s because his friends have moved on from Facebook, or if he’s the one who’s moved on from his friends.

All of a sudden he hears an excited voice call his name, right in his ear, and before he can react he’s engulfed in blonde hair and flowery perfume.

Speaking of shockingly enthusiastic.

“Hi Vilde.” Isak tries to sound excited. He knows he isn't being very convincing, but Vilde is one of three people for whom he’ll actually make the effort, and – the other two being Jonas and Sana – the only one of those three who actually expects it. Especially today, when they’ve barely seen each other during the nine months of Vilde's maternity leave.  “I didn't know you were back.”

Vilde smiles brightly.

“Wednesday was my first day back! You know, starting with a short week.”

Isak nods slowly, searching his mind for the appropriate responses, separating them from the back from vacation small talk and comments on the weather.

“And, uh, how does it feel to be back? Is everything as you remember it?”

He knows it is. If anything, he is the one who’s forgotten things – like just how big Vilde's smile can actually get when she’s genuinely happy.

His relationship with Vilde bothers Isak. He can never quite define it, classify it. Are they friends? He supposes they must be, if only because they’ve known each other for over ten years now. Vilde and Sana – the only two friends he has left from Nissen, the only remnants of a large and intense friend group that, when it came down to it, just wasn't as permanent as it felt at seventeen. And Isak knows that he can't exactly take any credit for the survival of his friendships with Sana and Vilde. But even if he defines them as friends – it’s not easy. Not like what he had with Jonas at university, for example, where they could just… be silent together. Just hang out. Not think. Not try. The thought is accompanied by an all too familiar pang of nostalgia.

Vilde is babbling about how great it feels to be back, that she misses the kids, of course, _of course_ she’d rather be home with them a little while longer, but it's so good to be back, and has Isak heard about the new recruiting effort, to diversify the firm, find interns with other backgrounds than what they normally get (she doesn't say not so white, not so rich, not so pedigreed, but they both know what she means, know that one thing they do have in common is ticking two of those boxes) – that was Vilde's idea, before she went on maternity leave, and she finally got the go ahead from the partners, so that’s why she's back early, and it’s so exciting!

Isak does his best to keep up. This does sound kind of familiar, actually. He knows that Vilde, who does most of the firm’s intern recruiting, has complained for years that their recruits are all basically interchangeable: good grades, the same social clubs, the same interests. The same surnames. So Vilde finally got their bosses to listen. Good for her.

“Just make sure we don't get sued for reverse discrimination,” he jokes, “You know how trigger happy law students are.”

Vilde's face falls. Crap. Of course it does. Isak should know by now that she really doesn’t get his lawyer jokes.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…” All the enthusiasm has disappeared from Vilde’s voice. Fuck, why is this so _difficult?_ “I’ll talk to Mari about it, I guess.” And yeah, that’s probably a good idea, because there have been a few cases where firms have been sued for discrimination because of similar efforts, and they definitely want to avoid that – but Isak never meant to make Vilde feel bad.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine though,” he tries to backtrack, “and congratulations on, you know, getting it approved.” VIlde smiles, but it’s without the same unbridled excitement, and Isak feels the familiar sting of guilt that talking to Vilde often brings him. He knows that he’ll be poking that bruise for at least the rest of the day. “And, uhm, we should get lunch now that you’re back?”

Thankfully, Vilde smiles a little brighter at that, and the guilt softens slightly.

“We should,” she agrees, and hands Isak his coffee, which has been sitting in the machine for a while now. “I’ll text you.” That Isak won’t text Vilde is doesn’t need to be said.

It’s only when Isak is back in his office, trying to focus on analyzing a recent judgment from the ECHR to see if it’ll affect the upcoming trial, that he realises that he should probably have asked Vilde about her kids, and Magnus. The bruise stings.

*

The rain is still pouring down and it’s been pitch black for hours when Isak finally exits the office. It’s late enough that he could take a cab on the firm’s expense, but that would probably mean more small talk with the driver, and tonight, Isak needs the forty minutes of solitude that his commute offers to decompress and get into the right headspace.

The partygoers on the tram are for the most part not yet drunk, just excited. Girls sway on heels that they can’t walk in, the groups of teenage boys are trying their best to live up to expectations of rowdiness. Isak plugs in his earphones and relishes his invisibility. Forty minutes of being no one.

The seven minute walk from the tram stop is enough to drench him completely, and still he doesn’t run. He takes his time walking up the four flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator, and catches his breath for a moment before he finally, quietly, unlocks the front door.

There are shoes spread out all over the hallway, and Isak has to take a big step over them as he enters. He’s been gone less than 48 hours. He hangs up his wet coat and slips into the hallway bathroom. Dripping wet running clothes hang on the towel rack, soaking the towel underneath. Isak sighs. Again. He runs his hands through his hair and looks in the mirror for a minute, collecting his thoughts. He’s home. This is home. Mess and all. Much better than some impersonal hotel room.

He moves the towel before leaving the bathroom, organises the toothbrushes and puts away the contact fluid and deodorant in the cabinet.

Julian looks up from the tv when Isak enters the living room and smiles a closed-mouth smile.

“Hey babe,” he greets him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Isak shakes his head.

“I thought you might be asleep,” he says, knowing that Julian would have waited up for him all night if he had to. Isak flops down on the couch next to him and puts an arm around Julian’s shoulders. Pulls him close. Julian settles against his chest, finding his usual position with his head against Isak’s shoulder. “What are we watching?” Isak asks. Deflects. He needs at least a full night of sleep before he can survive the discussion on his working hours again. If they do it now, he knows he won’t be able to resist hurting Julian, that he’ll definitely bring up the mess, that they both knew what going into big law would mean for Isak – and the last thing he wants is to see Julian sad. See him try to be stoic, rational, contain his frustrated tears. Tears that make Isak make promises that he knows he won’t live up to, because Julian crying always feels like the beginning of an end, although it never is.

“Pride and Prejudice,” Julian answers.

“Why?!” That’s not Julian’s _or_ Isak's taste. Julian just shrugs at Isak’s incredulousness, immune to it after so many years together, a running joke that ran out of steam too long ago.

“It was on.” He takes a sip of his green smoothie before offering it to Isak, who does the same, despite knowing that it’ll be disgusting. No matter how much Julian talks them up Isak will never understand the point of ruining a smoothie with spinach.

Julian knows this too.

“Do you want me to make you one? We have raspberries in the freezer. Or there’s that chocolate protein powder.”

Isak shakes his head in response.

“Nah, I think I’ll just grab a beer later,” he says, while at the same time settling deeper into the sofa and pulling Julian in even closer. He burrows into the sofa, finds his spot, where the couch cushions have sunk in from years of use to accommodate the two of them perfectly. They should really get a new couch, upgrade from the cheap Ikea model that they got when they first moved in together. Replace it with something more adult. More fitting.

Julian smells clean, of their shampoo and their soap, and Isak runs his fingers through his dark hair, still wet from his post run shower. Julian’s finger draws circles on Isak’s knee, and he’s smiling when he leans back against Isak’s shoulder and tilts his head up. When Isak kisses his full, soft lips, he tastes of spinach and ginger.

“I missed you,” Julian whispers, pulling at Isak’s tie, slowly opening his shirt, button by button. “I love you.” Isak reaches inside Julian’s fluffy robe, lazily tracing the hints of his boyfriend’s six-pack.

“Love you too.”

Home. Mess and all.

On the tv Keira Knightley is shocked to hear that her friend has accepted a marriage of convenience, but neither Isak nor Julian are paying attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the warning: this fic includes Julian/Isak, and, obviously, Isak cheating on Julian. There's a reason for that "angst with a happy ending"-tag though - both the angst part, and the happy ending. Promise! 
> 
> The plan, as you may have guessed, is to update every Saturday - no promises, but I'll do my best!


	3. Øverlie Boukhal and Malik vs. Extra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I obviously shouldn't have promised Saturday updates, because that didn't even last a week... I hope no one was too disappointed!
> 
> This chapter contains the first part of the trial, and so I just want to add the disclaimer that while I am a lawyer, I'm not a Norwegian lawyer, and I don't actually do human rights law. So if you catch any mistakes pertaining to that - please let me know! I tried to do my research, but unfortunately, I couldn't complete another Master of Laws in a week ;)

Julian makes Isak a raspberry smoothie on Monday instead, and Isak drinks it on the tram while answering e-mails on his phone. The trial is expected to last all week, and Isak knows that it will be taking up most of his time. He knows he'll have to work the weekend as well, as he has the last few weekends, and he knows Julian won’t be happy about it. But there really isn't much Isak can do. For all his success, he’s still on a relatively low rung of the ladder at MNA, specialised in an area that brings publicity, especially now when there's bit of a debate on privacy issues going, but not very much money. And in the end, that's how success is measured at MNA – who lines the partners’ pockets most efficiently? 

Julian grumbles, but he doesn't know what it’s like. He doesn't get it. He has his steady, cushy job as a lawyer with the city. No evening or weekend work. Regular vacations expected. No billable hours. Mostly written processes in administrative court cases. Isak would be jealous, but for the fact that just the thought of Julian’s job bores him to tears. Hell, it bores  _ Julian _ to tears. He keeps complaining about his colleagues, all women in their forties who mostly complain about their kids and husbands, and he has no interest in the cases he handles at all. But whenever Isak tries to suggest that Julian look for another job Julian brushes him off. Isak doesn't think he’ll ever move. Not by his own volition.  _ Maybe  _ if he's headhunted, but why anyone would headhunt Julian, Isak doesn't know. Julian likes the routine. He likes knowing what he’s doing and that he's decent at it, likes the predictability of having a steady stream of equally boring cases cross his desk. Isak suspects that he even likes the complaining.

William and Eva are waiting in awkward silence when he arrives at the courthouse. Their trial is on the seventh floor, and the open structure of the courthouse means that Isak can see a crowd gathering outside the room as soon as he enters the lobby. It does nothing to improve his mood. Despite having done this many times by now, he is always stressed right before a trial, his nerves buzzing, shallow beneath his skin. There is just no way to know how this will go. Yes, they’ve had the opposing counsel’s statements, they know the basic arguments that they’re going to make – but to hear them spoken out loud is a different beast altogether. And now this. Journalists. And probably not the good kind. They’re going to treat this like a fucking movie premiere. He already knows that the camera flashes will give him a headache. He glares at the girl holding up the line to the security check, emptying her bag in front of the guard. She's wearing  _ jeans. _  Jeans and boots. In court. Isak straightens his tie, silently thanking Julian for picking it out. At least he knows he’ll look good in the inevitable pictures. 

The quiet changing rooms offer a moment’s breather before facing the horde. Isak slips on his robes, exchanging the weight of his stress, over the case and over Julian, for the weight of the wool. The robes are his armor. His cloak of invisibility. With them on, he is powerful. The lingering self doubts and insecurities that he can never seem to banish completely disappear, and the only part of him that remains is his professional persona.

The editor in chief of Extra, Olivia Dubland Marken, joins them, Pepsi Max bottle in hand as always, as they get in the elevator and begin the journey to the seventh floor. William quickly briefs her on their opening remarks, and how far they expect to get before lunch –  _ maybe  _ to the hearing of the parties, but it’s more likely that that will have to wait until the afternoon. 

The first person Isak sees when the elevator doors open is Noora. She’s facing them, has her back to a crowd of journalists, and she looks up expectantly from her phone when the elevator dings. The first thing Isak notices is that she apparently still wears red lipstick. Their eyes lock for the briefest of seconds before her gaze travels behind him, and stops, eyes wide. Her stare is filled with dread. Beside Isak, Eva looks from Noora, to Isak, to William, to Noora, and frowns in confusion. Isak's nerves start to buzz again. 

The Oslo legal community isn't that big. The part of it that cares about human rights issues is even smaller. After a few years of conferences and seminars you get to know most everyone, at least by name and sight, meaning that trials are usually prefaced by hearty handshakes, jovial smiles, and questions about the wife, the kids, the boat, the summer house. Isak has his stock phrases. They usually serve him well – but they’re not adapted to meeting your former classmate and study group member, also known as your colleague’s last serious girlfriend, for the first time since she moved out of their shared apartment while he was away and disappeared to Bergen without leaving a note.

Fuck. 

Isak does the only thing he can think to do – he pretends everything’s normal. 

“Noora! How are you?” Their hug is stiff and awkward, and Isak isn't sure who they’re putting on a show for. 

Noora smiles tightly, her red lips stretching into a thin line. 

“Good. I’m good.” 

“Back from Bergen?” Obviously back from Bergen. 

Noora nods, slowly, like she always used to do when she was unsure of what to say. Isak flashes back to innumerable seminars at university. 

“Back from Bergen,” she answers, finally. 

“Great! Great.” Isak bobs his head a bit, trying to think of something to fill the uncomfortable silence with. He doesn't know if Noora us married, or has kids, or a boat, or a summer house. She doesn't post on Facebook or Instagram very often. Noora mimics his nod. 

“And… and how are you?” she asks. 

“I’m good! Great.” He can feel smile is growing more and more strained, and looks around him in search of a topic of conversation. He locks eyes with Eva. 

“Oh! This is Eva!” he exclaims, before realising how stupid it sounds. Thankfully, Eva glides up beside him and smiles, warm and genuine. “She’s one of our junior lawyers.” 

Eva extends a hand to Noora, and Isak can see her dread melt into bewilderment as Eva holds on even after they’ve stopped shaking. 

“Nice to meet you,” Eva beams. “Did Isak say you’d just moved here from Bergen? I grew up there!” 

A careful smile spreads on Noora's face, somewhere between polite and charmed. 

“Yes… I lived there for a few years. After university… I wanted to see something besides Oslo.”

Isak recognises her tone as the one he himself uses for phrases that he's uttered so many times that he almost believes them. But Eva only nods, and keeps holding on to Noora's hand and smiling. 

The scales of Noora's smile tip slightly towards charmed. 

Isak wonders where William disappeared to. He turns away from Noora and scans the crowd. Most of the journalists are interviewing the plaintiffs, rapper Adam Malik and filmmaker Mikael Øverlie Boukhal, but a few of them have broken off and are talking to Olivia, with William by her side. Good. They're both much better at dealing with the press than Isak is. He looks around at the assembled reporters, recognises a few of them, and wonders what angle they will take. Will they write a celebrity sob story or will they recognise that a win for the plaintiffs is a threat to their freedom as well, even if they for the most part consider themselves above the stories Extra prints? By the way they are hanging onto every word out of the plaintiffs’ mouths he assumes it’ll be the former. Idiots. 

Isak is so caught up in his train of thought that he doesn't notice the person approaching them from behind until Noora drops Eva’s hand and says,

“Even! Finally!” 

Isak recognises the voice the instant it answers. 

“Noora, I’m so sorry! I got on the wrong tram.”

Isak recognises the laugh that follows. 

When he turns around he’ll recognise the eyes that meet his. 

When he shakes his hand he’ll recognise the fingers that touched his face. 

Noora tilts her head and rolls her eyes in fond exasperation, and the last traces of dread and stress melt off her face. Isak wonders, then. About Strasbourg. About Noora. Maybe they are more alike than he assumed, this Even and him. That thought, that recognition, is what gives him the clarity to settle his face into pleasantness and turn around and hold out his hand,  just as Noora says,

“Even, this is Isak, and Eva, two of Extra’s lawyers.”

Even shakes Eva’s hand first and tells her it's nice to meet her. Isak wonders if it's because she's a woman, because it’s clear from all the documents that he's the one in charge of this case, but he thinks that might be a thing – greeting the women first – although he’s not sure. Eva smiles, and it’s still big and bright and seemingly genuine, but Isak can see that it's dimmed somewhat. 

Even takes Isak's hand. Isak's nerves buzz. Even raises his eyebrows, and smirks. Fucking smirks.

“Nice to meet you as well.” There is laughter in his voice. 

The buzzer sounds, signalling that the trial is about to start. The crowd moves as one towards the courtroom. Noora turns to her clients to usher them in, and Eva catches up to William and Olivia. 

Even holds on to Isak's hand. He ducks his head and lowers his voice and Isak can still hear the laughter when he says,

“But I thought it was Adrian?” 

His thumb brushes over Isak's knuckles, and he winks. Then he’s gone as well. 

Isak's nerves shortcircuit. 

He was wrong. He and Even are nothing alike. 

*

Isak's conviction only grows stronger as the day passes: whatever connection he felt to Even, whatever trace of himself he saw in him – he was mistaken. Because Even is nothing like him at all. In fact, he still isn't entirely convinced that Even and Noora aren’t  _ EvenandNoora _ – because if anything, Even is like William. 

The worst parts of William. 

Even is dramatic. Emotional. Showy. 

Flirtatious. 

And Isak grows angrier and angrier with every minute. 

The trial starts out fine. The judge introduces herself, the parties, the lawyers. She runs through the demands of the plaintiffs – 100 000 each, they're insane – their reasoning and the evidence. Then it's time for Even to deliver the plaintiffs’ initial statement and – it’s the most infuriating thing Isak has ever had the misfortune of witnessing. 

What does he think this is, fucking Ally McBeal? 

Even delivers his statement like he’s telling a bedtime story, like a dramatic retelling of a gripping movie. 

He tells the courtroom the story of Adam and Mikael: how they've been friends since high school, and fell in love when they were both just struggling artists. How they've supported each other through hard times and failures. How their wedding was at the same time a celebration of their recent successes and their deep love and commitment to each other. How it was an intensely private occasion for the both of them. 

When balancing the right to freedom of expression against the right to respect for private and family life, Even argues, the scales must, in this case, be tipped in favor of privacy. The publication of the article added nothing to the public debate. It was not a matter of public interest – the pictures were taken and published purely for their entertainment value. And what’s more – they included pictures of Adam and Mikael’s friends and family, who, for the most part, are not public figures. 

At least half of this is irrelevant to the case. Isak can see that the journalists are eating it up. They hang on to Even’s every word, every smile, every frown, every concerned hand on Mikael’s shoulder when he recounts what an ordeal this has been for them. It takes all his focus not to roll his eyes.  

When Even is done he leans back in his chair and puts his foot on his knee. Isak can see that he's wearing pink socks. Pink socks with fucking peace symbols. He catches Isak's eye and does his smirk and eyebrow raise again in silent challenge. It’s like he’s practiced it in the mirror. Isak suppresses another eyeroll. He won’t give Even the satisfaction of thinking that they have a connection. 

Does he think this is a game? A fucking joke? This isn’t a common law system. There’s no room for  _ feelings  _ in the initial statement. There’s no reason to embellish. No jury to convince. There is a system, a right and a wrong, and a professional, objective judge to tell them which is which. And if Even thinks the way to win is by throwing sand in her eyes then he has lost any respect Isak was begrudgingly ready to give him. It’s one thing to use charm with the witnesses, to get them off the script they’re invariably on, catch them off center – but this is the  _ law.  _ There is a  _ process.  _ A system. It’s pure, and definitive, and Even’s little stunt soils it – and he doesn’t even seem to care. 

Isak delivers his statement with as little inflection as possible. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the girl in jeans and boots yawn. 

As the day drags on it becomes more and more apparent to Isak that Even has zero respect for the task put to them by their choice of profession. Isak became a lawyer to sort the right from the wrong. To create order in a society that’s in constant disarray. To learn the rules, so that he could follow them and get others to do the same. 

Even, it seems, became a lawyer to fuck things up. 

It shines through in how Mikael and Adam speak of their experiences, how he presents the physical evidence – Even has gone on a hunt for loopholes and inconsistencies, and he plans to make use of every one of them, with no regard for the purposes of the law, the history behind its developments, the principles of the Strasbourg court  _ or  _ the Supreme Court’s case law. Where Isak has written legally compelling arguments, pointing to all the ways this case differs from Big Brother, from Von Hannover, from Dosamantes – Even has anecdotes of Adam and Mikael’s rise to fame, their private nature (Isak almost scoffs at that – through Julian, he knows that they both have hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers). With every story that Even offers, Isak grows more and more frustrated, more and more furious. This isn’t dignified. 

When they break for the afternoon the reporters swarm around Even, Noora, Adam and Mikael, and Isak has to elbow a few of them out of the way to get to the elevator. As he passes, he hears them ask Mikael and Adam how they feel having to relive this painful experience, and he wants to shove them all into the wall. He knows that journalist. If anything, their magazine is worse than Extra. How stupid are they if they can’t see that it’s  _ their  _ freedoms that Isak is protecting? He turns to William and Eva. 

“I need a beer.” 

*

The atmosphere around the table is subdued. William is unusually quiet, even for him. Eva taps her nails on her glass, without any discernable rhythm. Isak fumes. Thoughts of all the annoying, infuriating, flat-out  _ wrong  _ things Even did in the courtroom keep popping into his head. How he kept speaking directly to the journalists. How he told the judge all about the people in the photographs submitted as evidence – parents and aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews. Friend after friend after friend. How he kept  _ looking  _ at Isak when Isak was delivering his arguments, looking at him and  _ smiling,  _ like he was fucking  _ encouraging  _ him. That alone would have been enough for Isak to determine to obliterate him. Who the fuck does he think he is? 

“So Noora and Even seem nice,” Eva says, puncturing the silence.  _ Nice?  _ Isak scoffs. He doesn’t know if Eva willfully ignores him or genuinely doesn’t hear him. “You knew her at university?”

Isak has to glance at William. How is he supposed to answer that? At university, there was no Noora without William, and no William without Noora. From the moment they got together, they were a package deal. Unlike Isak and Julian, who had their own friends, their own interests, William and Noora seemed to merge into a single being from the start. Living together, almost right away. It was through William that Noora and Isak created their study group – and Julian and Jonas came with Isak. He never questioned if Noora had any friends she wanted to join. When he first met her, she had sometimes talked about doing a year abroad at some point during their five years in the law programme – Madrid, maybe, or London. For one reason or another, she never did. 

Then suddenly, a few months after graduation, she was gone. And it wasn’t until Jonas ran into her in Bergen that they knew where. 

How do you tell your coworker this?  _ What _ do you tell them? Where do you even begin? 

William glances back, jaw clenched, eyes void of emotion.

“She’s my ex.” With that, he grabs his coat and stalks out, beer untouched.

Eva gapes at Isak, and he tries to meet her eyes as steadily, as authoritatively as possible. 

“You probably shouldn’t mention her to William again. She really fucked things up.” Eva only nods slowly in response. 

*

The upside of trial weeks is that Isak gets home at a reasonable hour. He still has to prepare for tomorrow, but first, he can sit down, have dinner with Julian, think about something other than Noora and William, Adam and Mikael, and fucking  _ Even. _

Julian is cooking dinner when he gets home, and Isak tries to ignore the multiple cutting boards, spoons and bowls littering every surface of their white and chrome kitchen and focus instead on how good it smells. Julian is humming along to some song on the radio, but stops and grimaces when he realises Isak is standing in the doorway. 

“Sorry.” His smile is a little embarrassed, and Isak is, as always, pleased to discover that he still has that effect on Julian. It makes it easier to overlook the mess. 

“No, it’s cute,” he answers, looping an arm around his boyfriend’s waist and kissing his temple. “This smells amazing.” 

Julian’s smile turns genuine at that, and he angles his head to steal a proper kiss. 

“Good. It’s almost done.” 

They eat in silence. Isak wonders, sometimes, if other couples also eat in silence, or if they have lively conversations, discuss their day, maybe, while they eat. Maybe if they had kids it would be different. They’d have more that they had to talk about. As it is now, everything is a choice. When they first got together, being silent with Julian was one of Isak’s favorite things. It felt right, then – to come back to familiar silence after spending time with their friends, at loud parties or heated seminars or excited group outings. He supposes it’s still right. It gives him a chance to relax, gather his thoughts, regroup. He supposes. 

At the thought of regrouping, his mind conjures Even’s smirk. 

“I ran into Magnus today,” Julian is saying. He giggles a bit, and Isak can feel his shoulders rise. Magnus and Julian aren’t always a good combination. “He’d forgotten to turn in his phone before he went on leave! Isn’t that hilarious?” Isak smiles, but can’t really see the humor in it. “Anyway, so he brought Aksel by, and he is adorable, just the happiest kid, and so social, he sat in everyone’s lap and didn’t even flinch. And you know, with that blond hair and those big blue eyes – he’s like a doll.” Julian has the dreamy look in his eyes that he always gets after spending time with children. Isak’s shoulders tighten. “And Magnus invited us over for gløgg and stuff on Sunday!” 

“No.” Isak responds on instinct, and doesn’t realise until after it’s said how brusque he sounds. And they’ve had this conversation enough times that he knows that being blunt won’t get him anywhere. “No, what I mean is, just,  _ this  _ Sunday really isn’t good for me. With this trial and everything, I  _ have  _ to work. Baby.” The term of endearment is added on an afterthought, and Isak cringes at himself. 

Julian has had this conversation just as many times as Isak. He knows exactly what Isak means. His smile is gone, and his eyes are sharp. “No,” he parrots. “It’s this Sunday. It’s the first Sunday of advent, and we are going to Magnus and Vilde’s to drink gløgg and spend time with our fucking friends.” His steely demeanor wobbles slightly when he has to blink furiously as he stands up and gathers together plates, forks, knives. Just before he exits to the kitchen he pauses, swallows, and turns back to Isak. 

“It’s  _ not  _ just this Sunday. You know it isn’t. It’s every fucking Sunday.” 

When he’s gone, Isak has to get his phone out to check his calendar. The last time they saw their friends was… he scrolls. In August. Coffee with Sana, just the two of them. Before that – Vilde’s birthday party. And, fuck. Every weekend since the end of September has at least one day with an entry labelled  _ work.  _

One of the last entries is titled  _ Strasbourg _ . 

Isak runs a hand through his hair. 

It reminds him of Even's hands. Even's hands in his hair, on his hips, grasping Isak's. Even's hands shaking his as if they’d never met before. Even's hands on Adam and Mikael’s shoulders, in support. Even's hands waving about like a windmill to emphasize his arguments. Isak can feel the rage bubbling up in his stomach again. 

The sounds of Julian filling the dishwasher, running the tap, slamming cabinets, escape from the kitchen. The rage mixes with the nausea of guilt. 

Why does he keep getting into situations where he has to fix things with Julian? Shouldn’t he just be able to avoid them, by now? 

Later, when Isak runs his hand through Julian’s curls, he has to concentrate to avoid thinking of blond waves instead. He goes to bed annoyed and unsettled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr too - I'm @champagneleftie there as well :)


	4. Mindfulness Techniques

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments on this - it really makes me incredibly happy that so many of you like this! 
> 
> Extra big thank yous go out to imminentinertia and himmelsky, who've been kind enough to answer my questions and confirm details about advent, and gløgg, and the legal system. Thank you both so much <3
> 
> As always all the love in the world to my lovely beta Anna (@smutfika on tumblr)! Love you <3
> 
> And you can follow me on tumblr if you'd like - I'm @champagneleftie there as well!

The rest of the week is at the same time too short, and endless. Isak wakes up every morning in a worse mood than the day before. It’s one of those weeks where even the things that usually brighten his day only push him further towards an outburst, and with every day that passes it takes more and more of his self-control not to snap at someone – Eva and Julian both skirt the line daily. 

Especially Julian. And Isak can’t snap at Julian. Not now. 

They have to get through the week. If they can just survive the week without fighting again, he knows everything will go back to normal. But the days after a fight are always worse than the actual fight. 

After his outburst, Julian leaves the dishes on the counter and goes for a run in the wet November night, without waiting two hours after eating like he normally does. When he gets back the red in his eyes can easily be blamed on the wind. He showers and puts on his fluffy robe, lets Isak taste his disgusting smoothie and leans onto his chest. Isak cards his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. If anyone were to look in through their living room window they would look no different to any other night. But against his chest Isak can tell that Julian isn’t melting into him as he usually does. Isak tries to focus on Julian’s hair. 

Julian gets up before Isak on most mornings, and is usually halfway out the door when Isak’s alarm rings. On Tuesday, Isak awakes to steaming coffee, a smoothie, eggs and kisses. When Julian rushes to the tram, he leaves a cinnamon chia pudding on the counter for Isak to have in the afternoon. Isak buries it deep in his briefcase and his mind. When he remembers it as he’s hurrying home after the day’s end, his stomach churns with guilt rather than hunger. He empties the contents in a tram stop trash can, and, against all his instincts, puts the jar on the counter for Julian to find. 

In court, Even continues to be annoying as fuck. Whenever Isak looks over at him – gauging his reaction when William questions Adam and Mikael, or when they’re going over the photographs and Noora is expanding on the plaintiffs’ view of the fact that the magazine included pictures of Adam and Mikael’s families – he’s straight up staring. Not even trying to be coy about it. Crooked smile and raised eyebrows. At one point, Even runs his hand through his hair, ruining his try-hard style – seriously, how much time does he spend on his hair every morning? _ –  _ and bites his lip, ostensibly looking over his notes. Isak very nearly combusts. He's fucking doing it on purpose, and it’s  _ not cool _ . 

It feels vaguely threatening. 

There's a reason Isak keeps his hook-ups out of Oslo – it’s way too small. Out of town, everyone knows not to question it if the colleague who has a picture of his wife and kids on his desk hangs back in the bar with one of the firm newbies. It never comes back to the office. Everyone knows not to mention it. Well, everyone except Chris. And possibly, terrifyingly, Even. 

Isak doesn't know. 

That’s the part that scares him the most. 

Julian’s smile is bigger than it’s been all week when Isak joins him on his Wednesday run. When they get back Isak is drenched in sweat and panting heavily, and Julian is barely warmed up. Still, Isak can tell that Julian doesn't buy that that’s why he doesn't want to shower together, but he doesn’t question it – the friction between them still too close to the surface. If he had, Isak isn't sure what he would have answered. They finish their evening in opposite corners of the sofa, noses in their respective phones. 

The tension between William and Noora also does nothing to alleviate Isak's stress. As far as he can tell, they haven’t said as much as hello to each other. Noora seems to keep to Even or Mikael and Adam as much as possible, or hides in her phone or her notes. William glowers whenever Noora speaks in the trial, and lurks as close by as he possibly can when the reporters attack outside. To Isak, it’s obvious, but he wonders if it is to anyone else. Because as soon as a reporter turns to William, as soon as he addresses the judge or the plaintiffs – he is all professionalism and practiced smiles. 

Isak tries to act the same, but then Even twirls his pen and smirks and he trips over his words in frustration. 

On Thursday Isak almost collides with Noora and Eva when he enters the courthouse, and as they jump apart Eva’s hand takes a second to leave Noora’s arm. As Isak and Eva ride the elevator in silence she keeps tucking and re-tucking her hair behind her ear. 

The second to last day of the trial leaves Isak so worked up with annoyance, over Even, over the reporters, over William’s moods and Eva’s fumbling, that he has to escape to the restroom and lock himself in a stall as soon as they adjourn. He tries to remember the mindfulness techniques that were Julian’s favorite new thing a year ago, but his mind is blank. Fragments of thoughts are whirring around in his brain, and he can't pin them down. Julian is there, and Vilde and Magnus, and that reminds him that they still have to buy a present for Sana’s wedding, which awakens the familiar anxiety over never having been to a wedding before and what's expected? Should he prepare a speech? Will he be disappointing her, in some yet indeterminable manner? (Probably.) And that spirals into all the ways he’s disappointed people in general, lately but also years ago. He hasn't talked to Jonas in months – only e-mailed, to set up a visit from Isak as a part of the human rights course Jonas is teaching right now at the University of Bergen. And fuck, that's next week, and he hasn't even begun preparing. And Jonas and Bergen remind him, of course, of Noora, and that brings him back to William, and the trial, and all the little mistakes they’ve made this week – the details they haven’t pointed out, the counterarguments he’s only thought of at 2 am when he’s trying desperately to empty his brain and fall asleep. 

Isak tries to breathe in a square.

Finally, he can feel his heartbeat slow to a more reasonable pace. He stands up and unlocks the door. 

In the mirror, he meets Even’s piercing blue eyes, which crinkle as his reflection smiles – smiles, not smirks – at Isak. 

“Hi,” Even says. 

Isak forces himself to look away. 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Even’s smile falter slightly. 

“Uhm… good work today.” 

Isak vehemently doesn’t answer. Even rubs the back of his neck.

“So, uhm… we haven’t really had a chance to…” 

It’s the last straw in a week teeming with straws. 

There was a time in Isak's life when his stress and frustration would regularly come out in the form of violent rage. When it wasn't uncommon for an evening out to end with him being pushed or shoved or even punched. But that was a long time ago. And it would be romantic to attribute the change to meeting Julian – to  _ you make me want to be a better person –  _ but the fact that William and Chris’ fight stories were always told in the context of “God we were stupid in high school”, and the realisation that the criminal record he was potentially risking wouldn’t exactly increase his chances as a lawyer, probably contributed just as much, if not more. Today, his natural instinct is almost always to bend in the face of conflict, to sulk, to withdraw. To take it out on people he can be sure never to see again. A cashier. A telemarketer. The airport desk clerk. To fuck out his frustrations with a stranger he meets in a hotel bar. But Even seems completely incapable of taking a fucking hint. He is becoming a fucking liability, and Isak doesn’t need this right now. Everything’s  _ good  _ right now. He’s been feeling steady. Grounded. It’s almost –  _ almost  _ – become second nature, the office banter, the professionalism, the small talk. The blending in.

He doesn’t need Even fucking it up. 

And maybe the fact that he can’t snap at Julian this week, that he has had to keep his mood up at home as well as at work, contributes. 

“What the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?” he spits out, glaring at Even in the mirror. Even takes half a step back. “This… this is  _ work.”  _ His voice wobbles a little, and he clenches his jaw, tamping down on the hint of pleading that is threatening to seep out. “Don’t fucking drag this into work.” That, at least, makes some sense, unlike what almost tumbles off his tongue –  _ this is my life, don’t pull my life into this _ – which doesn’t make any sense at all, even to Isak himself. 

Even opens his mouth, starts to say something, but Isak doesn’t stay to find out what.

On Friday, Isak doesn’t catch Even looking at him once. 

*

There are many reasons why Isak doesn't like visiting Vilde and Magnus. He’s never really warmed to Magnus, for one. He's a lot like Vilde, actually, but without the mitigating factor of over a decade’s history and (now, when Isak and Vilde have, unexpectedly, become coworkers) a veneer of professionalism. Magnus is loud, and intense, and demands attention, and he keeps trying to make jokes at Isak's expense. Like he thinks they're better friends than they actually are. 

To Isak, this is one of the major downsides of being an adult: being forced into friendships with your friends’ spouses. He misses the time when they were all free and single. 

Julian loves it. 

The other reason why Isak doesn't like visiting Vilde and Magnus is that it reminds him too much of his parents. 

It’s the house. It's not the same house, or the same type – it's not even in the same neighborhood. But it’s close enough. 

It’s the sign on the door, announcing that this house is home to Magnus, Vilde, Ella and Aksel. It’s the yard, with the same berry bushes and lawn furniture. It’s the baby pictures in the living room. The school photos that are starting to trail up the stairs. The piano that no one can play. 

Isak spends every visit half expecting someone to point out how random words in the newspaper form a message, warning them of the apocalypse. 

The Christmas songs that blare at them when Magnus opens the door don't make it better. The bear hugs Magnus pulls them into also don’t help Isak's mood. Julian, on the other hand, melts into it. 

There's an impressive array of gingerbread and homemade Christmas candy and buns and cake set out in the living room, together with the pan of gløgg being kept warm by a tea light, and the cut glass mugs. Typical Vilde, Isak thinks. She can never just  _ stop _ , never keep herself from going completely overboard with this shit. This is fucking kosegruppa all over again. 

Magnus catches his eye and grins brightly. 

“I know, it's a bit much. But there’s just so much time when you’re on leave! And I had my wonderful assistant.” He winks at five-year old Ella, who’s sitting on the couch with Sana, pretending to read her a book. Julian practically leaps over to them and sits down on her other side. Isak sits in an armchair. 

“Did you help daddy bake?!” he asks in a grating, high pitched voice. Ella nods. “What did you get to do?” She doesn’t answer. Isak thinks she looks terrified. Instead, Magnus breaks in and answers for her. 

“You helped me pour in the ingredients, didn’t you Ella? The flour, and the sugar, remember?” He hands Isak a cup of gløgg. “And you helped me stance out the gingerbread cookies!” Isak makes a note to stay away from the gingerbread. He does not have time for preschool germs rights now. 

“Oh wow!” Julian says, faking awe. “Do you want to show me which ones you made?” 

Ella seems to soften a little, and gets up from the sofa to pick through the cookies on the platter and point out the crooked, headless men and women she’s responsible for. When Julian passes by Isak’s chair Isak can’t help but meet his beaming smile with an eyeroll. What the fuck is he doing? He’s embarrassing them. 

Vilde returns with Aksel – and does she have to announce to the entire room that she was changing his diaper? Vilde, what the fuck – and Isak greets her awkwardly with a hug. She updates him on the goings on at the office – apparently, the latest rumor is that Chris hooked up with Emma, which Isak really thought had already happened. Vilde also suspects that Ingrid is looking to leave, because she saw her have lunch with a partner at another firm on Wednesday. Then she asks him about the trial, and fuck, Isak doesn’t want to talk about that here. It would be fine discussing it with just Vilde and Sana, because Vilde knows enough after a few years at MNA to at least grasp the bigger picture, and Sana is smart enough to know what she doesn’t know and ask insightful questions. But Isak knows that Magnus will definitely have some half baked opinion on the proceedings, based on the reports in the evening papers, or the headline of some article shared on Facebook – and Magnus just does not seem to get that Isak is the fucking expert here, it’s his fucking case, he knows it like the back of his hand, and Magnus is just a social worker on paternity leave, so Isak really does not care one iota for his views on who should win. 

So he just answers that it was fine. 

Apparently, that’s not dismissive enough. 

At the mention of the trial, Magnus looks up from his conversation with Julian and Ella, and his whole face brightens. Isak has never met anyone who has as little control over his expressions as Magnus. He has no poker face whatsoever. 

“Oooh!” he exclaims now. “Did you see that Eskild and Linn talked about you in this week’s Kollektivet episode?” 

Isak is only vaguely aware of who Eskild and Linn are, and he has never watched their weekly celebrity news show. It’s only about b-list celebrities anyway – bloggers and Paradise Hotel participants and other people who Isak is usually only made aware of when they show up in Shall we dance? and are already passé. 

Magnus crouches down next to him and shoves his phone in Isak’s face, already laughing as the video loads. 

Eskild and Linn are sitting next to each other behind a white table, in front of a pink skyline. The clip picks up somewhere in the middle of the episode, starting straight away with an overexcited Eskild turning to Linn, who looks positively lethargic. 

“But  _ Linn!”  _ he squeals, grabbing the edge of the table and  _ bouncing _ . “We  _ have  _ to talk about the Adakael trial!” 

Isak is about to ask what a fucking  _ Adakael  _ is, until he realises – Adam and Mikael. 

Linn doesn’t answer. Isak wonders what her role in this show is. Eskild turns back to the camera. 

“Okay! So as everyone knows, Extra took lots of paparazzi pictures of Adam and Mikael’s wedding and published them without permission. Very sad, although they did look hot, so. Anyway! The trial was this week, and we  _ have  _ to talk about the  _ lawyers,  _ because oh my God, Linn! Those are some gorgeous human beings! Oh my God! Maybe I should have been a lawyer instead.”

Isak can feel the nausea rising within him. What the fuck is this?

“Let’s go through them one by one, shall we?” Eskild beams at the camera. “In order! The top five hottest lawyers in the Adakael trial!” He taps a stack of papers on the table and winks at the camera. 

“In fifth place,” he starts, and flips the first paper. Isak comes face to face with a photo of himself, frowning and looking past the camera. “Isak Valtersen!” Eskild squeals. He turns the paper around again examines it. “He is cute. I bet he’d be  _ really  _ cute if he smiled. But he didn’t, so he’s fifth!” 

_ What  _ the  _ fuck.  _

“In fourth place: Eva Kviig Mohn!” Eskild elbows Linn. “Your favorite!” He puts down Eva’s picture, and picks up the next one. “And in third – Noora Særtre!” He examines her picture as well. “I don’t really have an opinion on them. They’re girls.” He squints a little at Noora. “Her lipstick’s nice I suppose.” William is in second place – “He’s really got that bad boy vibe, doesn’t he?” – and then, of course, Even. Eskild has Linn do a drum roll on the table before doing the big reveal. “Even Bech Næheim!” unlike the other photos, this one is a headshot, not a candid. Even’s face is serious, and his eyes are even more piercing than in real life. The look he’s giving the camera is the same look he gave Isak in the elevator in Strasbourg. 

It’s everything that Isak’s waited all week to escape. 

Why does the universe insist on dragging Even into Isak's orbit? Why does it keep pushing them together? The only reason that what happened in Strasbourg happened – that Isak didn't just turn up his music, tell Even to fuck off and pass out in his own bed for something at least resembling a full night's sleep – was that he was sure that it would fucking stay in Strasbourg. That he would never see Even again. 

He could not have pictured the situation he is now – that Even would not only come into his life again, but on top of it all turn up to  _ mock _ Isak with his incompetence – in his worst nightmares. 

Isak’s brain chooses that exact moment to remind him of the sensation of Even’s tongue on his dick. 

“What the fuck, Magnus?!” he exclaims, pushing his hand away. “Why would you even show me this? This is my fucking job! It’s not a reality show! It’s not some fucking joke!” 

Everyone is staring at him, including Ella. Magnus looks shocked. Julian as well. Sana is disappointed. 

Fuck them. 

Isak pushes himself off his chair and stalks off to the kitchen. His heartrate is up again. 

He breathes in a fucking square. 

Can’t everyone just fucking leave him alone? All he wants is some peace and quiet and solitude, a weekend spent at home in fucking  _ silence,  _ so he can get ahead with his work and find his balance again. Why can’t everyone just give him so fucking  _ space?  _

He hears the door open behind him. It’s probably Julian. Any second he’s going to come up to Isak and hug him from behind, talk to him in the voice that’s supposed to be soothing but just comes off as condescending, and try to fix things. Tell him that if he just apologises to Magnus it’ll be fine, that he’s told them all Isak’s stressed, that it’s okay. Isak can feel the smoldering ball of rage within him catch fire again at the thought. 

“Hey.” 

It’s Sana. Not Julian. 

Isak’s shoulders instantly drop, and his breathing calms. Sana won’t ask if he’s okay. She won’t tell him what to do, or what the others think, or why this happened. Thank fucking God for Sana. 

“Hey.” 

They stand in silence for a while, Isak still with his back to Sana. 

“I… I’m just really stressed right now,” he says at last. It strikes him that there’s a world of difference between saying it himself and having Julian declare it. “Just… work, and everything.” 

Work, and everything. Like those aren’t the same thing.

Sana hums behind him. 

“You shouldn’t have taken it out on Magnus.” 

Isak scoffs. Fuck Magnus. Who cares what Magnus thinks?

“I know you don’t care for him, but he is Vilde’s husband. And you do care about Vilde. So you could at least try to be civil.” 

Fuck. Fucking magical hijab, or whatever the joke used to be in high school. 

She’s right, Isak knows she’s right, but it’s just. _Civil._ How much time does he spend trying to be fucking _civil?_ At work, here… can he never just _be?_

The answer, he realises, is no. Lately, everything just feels like such an  _ effort.  _ And when he tries to think of a time when he was completely relaxed, the first thing that comes to mind is smoking up with Jonas. In university. And now that he hasn’t talked to Jonas in so long, even that would probably require effort. He can feel his pulse pick up again as he thinks of the inevitable awkwardness that will surely occur when they see each other next week. 

Sana is studying him. Isak wonders if this is what it feels like to be one of her patients. 

“Are you sleeping properly?” she asks, and Isak can’t lie to her, so he can't say that he is. “You should talk to someone.” 

He scoffs again. 

“What, like a therapist?” 

Sana sends him a look that says that she knows he’s being stupid on purpose. It’s a look that he remembers all too well from their days as biology partners. 

“Sana, no. You know how I feel about therapy.” Sana is maybe the only person in the world who knows how Isak feels about therapy – that it’s pointless, that he doesn’t need it, that it would mean that he’s crazy. That therapy is for people like his mother. 

Sana shrugs. 

“I’m in therapy.” When she sees Isak’s reaction, she adds, “for my anger issues? I’ve told you this. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you this?” Isak shakes his head. “Oh. Well, I am, and so is Vilde, you know. It’s completely normal.” 

Isak’s response is that he is pretty sure therapy is the complete opposite of completely normal. Sana rolls her eyes at that. 

The door creaks open again, and Julian peaks in.

“Everything okay in here?” he asks, and although it’s not the annoying voice he used to talk to Ella, it’s laced with a concern that Isak hates. But he puts on his civil face and smiles at his boyfriend, puts an arm around his shoulders. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m sorry. It was just…” 

“Stress,” Julian supplies. 

“Yeah. Stress.” Isak tries not to grit his teeth when he smiles. At his last appointment, his dentist tried to push for a splint. “Come on, let’s have some more gløgg. And gingerbread cookies.” 


	5. Bergen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe we're already a third of the way through this fic! I want to say that I am so grateful to everyone who's reading this - your comments and kudos are really what keeps me going. 
> 
> And I know this is late, again - the only reason why it's only a day late is my wonderful beta @smutfika, who got this back to me in less than 36 hours after I sent it to her yesterday... She is the literal best. 
> 
> This is also the chapter when I finally cave and give you a glossary... Which I maybe should have done from the start.   
> ECHR - European Court/Convention of Human Rights, depending on context. Located in Strasbourg.  
> ELSA - European Law Students Association, there's a chapter at I think most law programs in Europe.   
> Club Schjødt - the University of Oslo (UiO) team for the Nordic ECHR Moot Court, a Nordic moot court competition. 
> 
> If there are any other terms you're wondering about, please just ask! You can also find me on tumblr, as (surprise) @champagneleftie.

Monday and Tuesday drag on as Isak struggles to catch up on the work he neglected over the weekend. Why is it that the work always seems to increase exponentially when you’re away from the office for a bit? He never has this many e-mails waiting for him on a normal Monday morning. He almost wishes that he hadn’t said yes when Jonas, on behalf of the Bergen chapter of ELSA, asked him to come up and give an evening seminar – up until the moment when he slides his laptop into his briefcase and sinks into the backseat of the taxi taking him to Gardermoen, and it’s only three pm. 

And anyway, there is no universe where Isak could ever say no to Jonas. Isak would have handed over the entire Extra case to  _ Chris  _ if it meant that he could say yes to Jonas. On the other hand, if he had done that, he never would have been invited in the first place. The entire point of this trip is for Isak to talk about that case, his other freedom of expression and integrity cases, and maybe inspire the students, or something. At least, that was what Jonas wrote when he e-mailed him back in September. Isak had to force himself to wait an hour before replying. Since then, they’ve exchanged a few e-mails – isak.valtersen@mna.no asked about the room having a projector, and jonas.vasquez@uib.no sent him the contact details of the student in charge and asked if he wanted to get pizza afterwards. Jonas’ e-mail signature contains his work number. Isak isn’t sure if the private number he has saved in his phone is still correct. 

A little under four hours of blissful, uninterrupted, guiltless silence stretch out before him, interspersed only with cab drivers telling him the price and flight attendants wishing him a pleasant journey. The sun sets while he waits to board, and when Isak settles into his seat it’s already pitch black. He’s surrounded by business men and women, most of them probably on their way home. Some of them reading a crime novel or a magazine, a few working, one or two sleeping. Isak watches his reflection in the window and tries to silence his mind. 

The last time he saw Jonas was… in June? May? He was in Oslo for some academic conference or other, and they went out for pizza afterwards. Isak remembers that they talked about going to Jonas’ parents’ cabin together in the summer, like they did a few times when they were students, but then it just… didn’t pan out. And then each time Isak tried to message Jonas, every text he wrote just sounded needy. So he never pressed send. 

Except for the messages surrounding this trip, the last contact they had was when Jonas wished him a happy birthday on Facebook. 

This is what their friendship is now, he supposes: pizza after conferences and lectures, where they catch up on major accomplishments and update each other on people from university, and birthday greetings – when they’re reminded by social media notifications. 

Isak still considers Jonas his best friend. 

He thinks that at one point, Jonas would have agreed, but he’s not sure he trusts his memory on that anymore. 

It was better when Jonas was still living in Oslo – they could get lunch, or just hang out on weekends. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them and they’d ended up at Jonas’ tiny apartment rather than at Isak and Julian’s, Isak could pretend that nothing ever changed. That things were still exactly what they had been at university. 

But then Jonas got it into his head that he wanted to get a fucking Ph.d., and left Isak and moved to Bergen, and met Isabell. Now it’s been three years and Isak no longer knows if he can text Jonas just because, and he doesn't have the courage to try. 

When they land in Bergen it’s raining. It’s always raining in Bergen. 

There's a tiny part of Isak, a glowing ember in his chest, too small to give more than the illusion of warmth, that hopes that Jonas will be waiting for him when he reaches the arrivals hall. It's quickly quashed. There aren’t many people there at all on a Tuesday evening – just a family, parents in their fifties and teenage siblings with balloons and a sign reading “Welcome home!”, embracing a girl in clothes that bear witness to a trip started in a season when coats were unnecessary, grabbing her giant backpack and refusing to let her carry it even a second longer. Isak squeezes past them, careful not to disturb despite the fact that they are the ones blocking his way. 

He doesn't want to try to imagine hugging Julian like that. He doesn't want the realisation that he can't.

*

When he arrives at the faculty of law building, Isak is met by a girl with shiny hair and riding boots. She smiles brightly and her handshake is perfectly firm. 

Isak's first instinct is to hate her. 

She is identical to all the shiny girls he met when he first started studying law. The girls who had perfect, color coded notes and Starbucks thermos mugs, who studied in the library from eight am to five pm every day and never seemed to be messing around on their phones. The boys who wore button down shirts and chinos to class and understood what answers the teachers wanted. 

The ones who seemed to know how everything worked, when Isak was almost failing his first course because he couldn’t figure out what to focus on when studying for the exam. The ones who knew which extracurriculars were a waste of time, and which would actually impress a recruiter, before Isak even realised that extracurriculars were something he should be doing. 

The ones who made Isak want to scream and flip tables when they talked about their boats and cabins and trips to Chamonix. 

“Thank you so much for doing this!” the girl is saying. “It means so much for us to get the some insights from the ‘real world’”. She giggles at her own air quotes. 

Isak smiles as wide as he can manage. 

“I’m so happy to be here!” he answers. “ELSA has a special place in my heart. I was actually president of the UiO section during my second to last year.” 

Despite Vilde’s best efforts, this girl may very well turn up at MNA one of these days.

*

Something like fifteen students have come to hear him talk, which is pretty much what he expected. It's not like he's some celebrity. If this case blows up, if it becomes a landmark verdict, included in textbooks, referenced in articles – Isak won't be mentioned. Adam and Mikael will be. If this goes to Strasbourg, it will forever be known as Malik and Øverlie Boukhal, and Isak won't even be mentioned as representing the respondent, since at that point that will be the Kingdom of Norway. 

Isak tells himself it doesn't bother him.

He imagines, instead, what he will tell his colleagues tomorrow when they ask how the seminar went. 

“The students were all very impressive.” 

“They had such insightful questions.” 

“Really, I’m sure I was nowhere near that well informed when I was a student.” 

They're not lies, exactly. The students  _ are  _ well informed (but so was Isak), their questions are insightful, and they’re all well-spoken and well-dressed and well-mannered. 

They're also infuriatingly  _ wrong. _

Isak wonders which one of Jonas’ colleagues is to blame for the fact that all the members of ELSA Bergen are apparently mini Evens in the making. He keeps hearing the same arguments he’s heard all week parroted back at him. 

By the time the seminar is over, Isak's neck hurts from nodding thoughtfully over and over again as he tries not to completely obliterate the 20-year olds arguing that the right to a private life is equally important to the freedom of expression, seconds before they post on Snapchat. 

*

Universities always make Isak think of Julian. 

Or rather, universities always made Isak think of Julian. 

Universities make Isak think of thinking of Julian. 

Even now, at night, when the halls are empty and more or less everyone has gone home. There’s just something in the air that makes Isak long to go to a lecture, let himself be wowed by the expertise of his teachers, bewitched by the possibility that he could one day be one of the people who  _ knows.  _ Who understands. Who can answer. 

There's something in the air that reminds him of fumbling. Of sitting in seminars and answering questions that weren’t asked. Of coming home with incomprehensible notes. Of pulling random books from the shelves of the library and hoping that they would contain his essay, completed, ready for submission. 

Isak never fell for Julian. They caught each other. 

Isak remembers noticing Julian’s blank notebook, bloody cuticles, bite-marked pen next to his own chaotic scribbles in the second month of their first semester. He remembers how the constant panic he had been under for the last few weeks finally left him, like catching your breath when you’ve been underwater for too long. How he, at last, for once, felt like he was maybe – just maybe – not alone. That not all his classmates were as self-assured as Jonas, who dared to skip lectures because he “learned more from reading the book”. 

Isak remembers Julian’s chubby-cheeked smile when Isak turned to him after the lecture and, with and exaggerated eyebrow raise claimed that he didn't get  _ any  _ of that – did you? 

Julian doesn't have chubby cheeks anymore, or soft arms, or sloping shoulders that are perfect for falling asleep on. They’ve been replaced by green smoothies and morning runs, and when Isak tries to remember when that happened he can’t pin it down. 

Isak catches Julian and lifts him up and tells him that he is smart, and good, and hot. Julian catches Isak and lifts him up and adores him, and takes care of him, and makes him feel worthy of being adored and cared for. Brings him food when he’s drowning in school and ELSA and summer internship applications, let’s Isak copy his notes when he’s running on too little sleep. Julian cheers him on and catches him, again and again and again, as Isak claws towards his goals, and stumbles, again and again and again. And Isak holds Julian and kisses him, kisses him at parties, on the street, kisses him hello when he sits down next to him in the library in the morning and good night when they part to go sleep in their own beds. Indulges Julian in five course meals and dinner parties and family vacations, holds his hand through Civil law I and II until Julian finds his bearings halfway through Constitutional  and international law, strokes his hair and talks him through choosing his elective courses. 

It's not  _ only  _ Julian, it’s never only Julian – it’s Jonas and William and Chris and Noora, and Iben and Argentina, it’s ELSA and Club Schjødt, it’s teachers and advisors and hard fucking work and all-nighters. It’s Julian training for his first marathon to distract himself from the stress of exams. It's Isak not sleeping before job interviews. It's champagne when Isak gets his offer from MNA and Julian, finally, in October, four months after graduating, gets a job with the city. It's buying their first apartment together, with Julian's parents as guarantors, and their second, on their own. But Julian is there, through it all, Julian is by his side, under his arm, in his hand. 

This is what Isak thinks of, when he visits universities. 

Or rather, thinks to think of. 

*

Jonas is late. It's weird. It's fucking typical. Of course he is. 

He never used to be late. 

This is why Isak won’t tell Jonas that he still considers him his best friend. 

Isak scrolls through the same handful of Instagram posts again and tries to look aloof. Tries to look not stood up. 

Tries to not look so fucking relieved when Jonas finally bursts through the door and envelops him in a hug. 

Tries to pat his back. Tries not to cling. 

Jonas is grinning, almost bouncing in his seat. It’s disconcerting. Jonas doesn't bounce. Jonas is chill. Jonas shrugs at his perfect grades. Jonas talks back to professors. Jonas veers off topic in his essays and talks about the law as a tool for social change.

Shrugged. Talked. Veered. 

They’ve barely ordered their drinks – beer, because dinner with Jonas is pretty much the only time Isak drinks beer, now – before it bursts out of Jonas. 

“Isabell and I are having a baby.” 

It takes Isak a second of gaping at Jonas before he manages to react, manages to get up and give him a hug and offer congratulations. 

Every buzzing nerve under Isak's skin screams no. Isn't it enough that he’s moved to Bergen? Isn't it enough that he's with Isabell? Isabell, who Isak still hasn't met. Isabell, who is now going to be in Jonas’ life forever. 

Isak knows what happens when people have babies. They work less. They stay at home. They don't want to travel for conferences anymore, and when you come to their city they don't have time to see you.

He manages to ask the questions that he’s learned that he's supposed to ask – when is the baby due, how are they feeling, are they excited? And Jonas chats happily, and Isak smiles, and nods, but nothing Jonas is saying registers.

They order the pizza, and it’s almost as it was, except the pizza is Neapolitan and with bresaola instead of just greasy. They eat it with forks and knives, now. 

Jonas asks about Julian, about Christmas plans. Isak asks about Jonas’ dissertation. They go through the list of classmates and mutual acquaintances. 

“So Noora told me that she and Even were really pleased after last week,” Jonas says, and Isak almost chokes on a string of buffalo mozzarella. 

“You talked to Noora?”

Jonas frowns. 

“Of course I talk to Noora, we used to see each other all the time when she still lived here.” 

Okay then. That’s news to Isak. 

His pizza suddenly doesn’t seem so appetizing. 

He hasn't talked to Jonas for months – and Noora has?

“What did she say?” 

“Well, they know it’s a long shot, of course...”

Isak snorts. Long shot. That’s an understatement if he ever heard one. 

“...but all things considered, they thought it went well.” He studies Isak. “What did you think?”

It feels like opening a dam and watching it flow from steady ground. When Isak starts talking he can’t seem to stop. It’s like all he’s wanted for the past week is to tell Jonas about the trial, pick it apart with him, like they used to pick apart seminars, lectures, exams. He goes on and on about Even, about his mannerisms, his fucking dramatizations. He keeps remembering more and more details, winks and smiles and raised eyebrows, word choices and questions and arguments. 

Jonas just listens, brows furrowed slightly. Sips his beer. 

“...he’s just so fucking  _ disrespectful _ ,” Isak finishes, catching his breath and stilling the hand he used for emphasis. 

Jonas hums. 

“It sounds like he's happier.” 

_ Happy?  _ Isak doesn't even try to keep the disgust off his face. 

What the fuck? 

How would Jonas even know what Even's like when he's happy, he doesn't…

Oh fuck. 

“He was really fucked up when he moved from here,” Jonas is saying, and Isak really needs him to back up and give him some fucking context. 

“You  _ know him?”  _

“Yeah, through Noora?” Jonas’  _ duh  _ is written clearly on his face. “He went to university here, and then stayed and started his firm.” He studies Isak's face. Isak hates when he does that. Trying to keep his emotions off his face has always been useless around Jonas. “He's a good guy, Isak,” he says now, and it's almost chastising. “I’m surprised actually, I really thought the two of you would hit it off, you’re so much alike.” 

“ _ What?” _

Isak wasn’t wrong, then. This is all the proof necessary to show how far he and Jonas have drifted. 

“Yeah? You're passionate,” – yeah, okay, Isak’ll give him that – “and clever,” –  _ Isak  _ is clever, Even is an idiot – “and loyal…” Isak scrunches up his face in disbelief. Loyal? Hah. No one in the entire universe would describe Isak as loyal.

“He is!” Jonas answers Isak's silent protest. “I’m pretty sure the only reason he took Adam and Mikael’s case was because they’ve been friends since high school. He knew from the start that it was a case to win in the tabloids, not the courtroom.” Even Isak has to admit that he's done a decent job of  _ that.  _ “And Noora says that he was a great friend to her when she got away from William.” 

Got away. Not left. Abandoned. 

Isak orders another beer. His pizza is only two thirds eaten when they leave. 

*

Isak ends up in the hotel bar, again, and it's more out of habit than anything else. A third beer. 

In his phone there’s an unread message from Julian telling him goodnight, I love you, endless hugs and kisses. He should have answered it – he will answer it – but by now Julian is probably fast asleep, so there’s no rush. But he will, he’ll send the same hearts and love yous and kisses right back, like they do every time they’re sleeping apart. 

There’s no reason for Isak to feel lonely. He just had dinner with his best – with his friend. He saw his other friends just a few days ago. He has great co-workers. He has a boyfriend who loves him. He tells himself. Again and again and again, like a mantra: his friends like him. His co-workers like him. He has a boyfriend who loves him. 

It’s not exactly working. 

There’s a man on the other side of the bar who keeps looking over at him. And maybe it’s the suit, maybe it's the shiny gelled hair, maybe it's the fact that when he takes a sip of his drink Isak can see that he hasn't even bothered to take off his wedding ring – something about him feels to Isak like looking in a mirror. 

When Isak locks eyes with him and cocks an eyebrow the man comes over. 

It’s not exactly a riveting conversation. The man is Swedish – good, less risk of him turning up in Oslo – and in Bergen on “business”. He doesn’t specify what business that is, and Isak doesn’t ask. The point of this isn’t to get to know each other. Isak is pretty sure that this time, there are no misunderstandings between them. 

The man’s lips are chapped from the cold, and he keeps chewing on them and smirking at Isak. He’s hot – buzzed hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders – and there’s something in the way he holds himself that suggests that he’s very used to getting what he wants. Isak knows that when the man looks at him, he’s probably seeing the same thing. The man’s hand on his knee – wedding ring gleaming in the turned down light of the bar – calms the buzzing nerves under Isak’s skin rather than ignites them. This is a man that will make Isak feel in control, rather than lose it. 

With this man, Isak won’t take his time. He has no desire to run his fingers over the man’s buzzed head, stroke his face, kiss him. The idea of undressing him doesn’t send a single spark of curiosity through him. 

It’s a relief.

Isak tells himself it’s a relief. 

He tells himself that it’s a relief, that it’s how it should be, that everything is back to normal. That this is all he needs, just enough to feel in control, to settle his thoughts. To get out of his mind for a few minutes, to wipe the slate clean from stress and nerves and start over. 

That Strasbourg was a fluke, a mistake, a momentary lapse of judgment. That he was stupid. Ignored the warning signs. 

That it wasn’t good. 

That he hasn’t returned to it too often over the past week, whenever Even’s licked his lips, chewed on his pen. Smiled. 

The man moves his hand further up on Isak’s thigh, and Isak is suddenly tired. He sees the night stretch out in front of him – and not just this night, but the identical nights that he knows will come, of clumsy hands that don’t know where he likes to be touched, sloppy mouths that don’t know how he likes to be kissed, hotel rooms left as soon as possible, faces that he’ll forget as soon as he closes the door. 

Isak remembers Even pulling his hair. 

He answers Julian’s text in the elevator, alone, on the way to his own room, and tries to convince himself that it’s Julian’s hair, eyes, hands that he pictures when he comes in the shower. 


	6. Contre qui, rose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - huge thank you to everyone who's reading this, your comments and kudos make me so happy, you have no idea <3
> 
> I want to give you all a heads up for this chapter - it mentions, but doesn't really deal with, Isak's mother dying of cancer, and with Isak's poor relationship to his father. If you want to skip that part, or just be extra prepared for it, it's the last four pharagraphs of the first part (before the *). 
> 
> The chapter title is the title of a [poem](http://www.rilke.de/gedichte/roses_xii.htm) by Rainer Maria Rilke, which has been put to music by Morten Lauridsen. It's on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2gLdoCWdTezpLD2KRH3a5B) if you want to listen to it. 
> 
> My lovely beta is [smutfika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutFika/pseuds/SmutFika) who worked miracles to make this readable. 
> 
> And if you want to, you can come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com/)

He keeps thinking of them. At the most inopportune moments, they appear in Isak's mind, crowding out all other thoughts.

Hair.

Eyes.

Hands.

He’ll be sitting in a meeting, trying to focus on what his colleagues are saying, and from nowhere, they’ll burst into his brain.

Hands in his hair.

Eyes roaming his face.

Lips on his lips.

He never used to close his eyes when he kissed Julian, when they had sex. He wanted to see him, see for himself that Julian was his, see how good he made him feel. Now, he squeezes his eyes shut, as tightly as he can, hoping that it will block out the images in his mind.

It hasn't worked yet.

Isak can only hope that now that the trial is over, now that he doesn't have to see Even every day – be reminded _every fucking day_ – that this will eventually pass. Like it always does. Because it's not like Even is the first person he's found attractive since being with Julian. Not the first person he’s slept with. They’ve been together for a decade by now – _of course_ he’s had crushes. Of course he’s gotten bored, needed a bit of an adventure, a little variety. Who wouldn't? And no one throws away a ten year relationship over a little crush.

It’ll pass.

Isak is certain it’ll pass.

He’ll make it pass. He’s getting back on track, finding his way back to the life he _wants_ to lead. The life where he and Julian are solid, where he’s on a clear path to becoming the kind of person he wants to be. The life where he knows how everything works. Where he has almost – maybe not entirely, but almost – internalised all the rules.

That doesn't mean that he isn't relieved when Julian decides to go visit his parents over the weekend. Ostensibly to let Isak work, catch up, get back in control, but. When you’ve been in a relationship with someone for so long – living with them, spending most of your time outside of work with them – you start to hear what they’re not telling you. You start to see how hard they're working to achieve normal, maintain status quo, and you know that they can see you doing the same. You notice when their goodbye kisses in the morning are a decision and not a necessity. When they unload the dishwasher without prompting, and wipe down the counter after cooking dinner. When their runs are longer and more frequent than usual.

It’s exhausting.

So when Julian goes straight from work to his parents on Friday, and Isak comes home to a quiet apartment – clean, tidy, calm – his first emotion is relief. Like going outside on a crisp fall afternoon after being stuck in a poorly ventilated conference room all day, and being filled up with oxygen. Like shutting down all electronic devices before takeoff and finally having space in your head for your own thoughts.

He breathes.

He breathes, and it’s only when he looks up from his computer Saturday afternoon, his attention grabbed by the sudden ignition of the street lights, that the worry seeps in. The same worry, always the same worry when Julian’s family is involved.

What do they expect?

What has Julian told them?

What are they thinking?

Because while Julian's parents have never been anything but nice to Isak, supportive of their relationship, interested in his career – there's always been a distance. They’re too _polite_ , too correct. It's like they’ve never progressed beyond small talk.

Isak can only assume that Julian's told them about how much he’s working. That he’s travelling a lot again. That they're fighting more – again. And Isak can't stop him, wouldn’t dream of trying to stop him. They’ve been doing this for too long now and he knows that Julian's first instinct is always to go to his parents. For comfort. For advice. For support. Isak knows that Julian's parents will always know what’s going on with Julian – and in extension, with Isak – often before Isak himself knows. He doesn't understand it, can't relate to it, but he knows.

Even when his mother was feeling well, he never felt that he could go to her to just… talk. He couldn’t tell her about his problems, because she had too many of her own. And his father just checked out. Was around, but at the same time not. Buried himself in work. Cared enough for Isak’s mother – or for Isak, he supposes – to never leave, not for good anyway. Enough to, eventually, get her therapy and medication. Enough not to leave her when she got sick, enough to go with her to doctor’s appointments and surgery and radiation treatments, enough to keep visiting her as she became smaller and greyer and balder, enough to keep nagging Isak to go as well.

Isak remembers running into his father and his girlfriend on the street, one day in his third semester of university. He remembers what his father said when he called him.

“You don’t just throw away a 24 year marriage, Isak.” He had sounded resigned. He always sounds resigned. Sounded. His father is yet another person Isak hasn't talked to since his birthday. He doesn't feel very bad about that. It's just easier this way, if they limit their contact to phone calls on birthdays and Christmas. Less risk of Isak being annoyed at his father’s guilty conscience. Less awkwardness.

He hasn't been to his mother’s grave in just as long. He feels worse about that.

*

He needs to get out of the apartment. Be around other people. Get out of his head.

Isak walks aimlessly, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders drawn up to keep out the December chill. It’s not late, not even dinner time yet, but the drizzle that’s been coming down all day is keeping most people inside. It’s the type of rain that you only see in the light of passing cars, a wall of wet rather than falling drops. The type of rain and the type of cold that almost no coat – no coat acceptable for city wear – can keep out. Isak turns his collar up, and pulls his shoulders further towards his ears.

It's the cold, and the wet, that make his decision for him.

The cold, the wet, the nostalgia and the guilt.

He passes a church, and it’s something he hasn't thought about in years: how his mother, every year, used to take him to Christmas concerts in Sagene church. At first, the whole family, and then, as he got older and his father grew more and more distant, just the two of them. How she, every year, used to remind him that he was baptised there. How sad she had been when they couldn’t go, the last Christmas before she died.

This is not Sagene. He has never been in this church, has no idea if the choir whose concert is starting in a few minutes is any good, but he takes a program and a hymnal from the woman at the door and slips into a seat in the last pew. He keeps his coat on so that he can make a quick escape.

The church is dark, lit only with flickering candles. The audience isn't big – probably mostly families and friends. But in the silence, Isak's brain finally stills. It is the calm of being alone in a crowd.

As the choir enters from the sacristy, someone slips into Isak’s pew, and the unexpected movement grabs his attention. Makes him turn his head.

The eyes that he hasn't been able to get out of his mind look back at him. The hands that he’s pictured pulling his hair are gripping the same program, the same hymnal as Isak's hands.

Why the fuck is he here?

He knows that the risk that Even is there because of him is tiny, miniscule. There is no way he could have known that Isak would be at this concert, not when Isak himself didn’t know it until just a few minutes ago. But lately it seems like he can’t take a single step without crashing into Even. If it isn’t his head or his friends who are betraying him, it’s the fucking universe, putting Even in Isak’s way when he has no reason – no reason whatsoever – to be there. Staring at Isak like they have something, share something.

He was supposed to be getting rid of him. Supposed to put him away and turn his attention back to his life. Get rid of this unsettled feeling in his gut, the churning sensation that’s been returning more and more frequently over the last few weeks. Get back on track.

Even smiles at him. Barely smiles – the corner of his mouth turns slightly upwards, the sparkle in his eye is just a reflection of the candlelight. There is no cocked eyebrow, no hint of a smirk. If anything, he seems nervous. He turns the hymnal over in his hands, puts in down on the bench, picks it up and places on the little shelf of the pew in front of them instead, grabs it again and puts it in his lap. Reads the program in its entirety – the front page with the name of the choir and the church, the date, the list of songs in the centerfold, the participants and upcoming events on the back – and then reads it again. He sits as far away as possible from Isak in the pew, and seems intent on not looking at him.

The director taps a tuning fork to his temple. The choir takes a deep breath.

Since when does Even know anything about personal space? From approaching him on the shuttle to brushing his fingers over Isak's shoulder on the plane, to winks and smirks and raised eyebrows and seeking him out in the fucking bathroom – he just keeps pushing, and pushing, and pushing. Shouldn't he be sitting too close, thigh against thigh? Shouldn’t he be _watching_ , shouldn’t he be biting his lip and running his hand through his hair?

The low murmurs of the basses fill Isak's chest, vibrate through his nerves, to the tips of his fingers.

Isak thought he had him pinned down. Thought he had finally managed to categorize Even, managed to figure out his personality. He had come to the conclusion over the last two weeks that Even is over the top and dramatic. Unsubtle. Undeniable. A fucking loose canon.

The voices chase each other, muddle, take over, back down. Tangle so it’s impossible to make out any of the words they are singing.

He came to the conclusion that it had been a mistake, that first time. That he made a mistake thinking that the airport stranger was a safe bet. Uncomplicated. That he was in control of the situation.

He hasn’t been in control since.

But. The Even sitting here is not the Even of the last two weeks, the Even Isak has conjured in the shower, in bed, in his office, in meetings over the last week. His eyes trained ahead, on the hands folded in his lap – anywhere but Isak. Chewing on his chapped lower lip.

This Even is the Even who stroked Isak’s face in the hotel elevator. The Even who seemed to marvel at every centimeter of skin uncovered. The Even who took the time to kiss every birthmark on Isak’s shoulder, trace the contours of his chest, his stomach, his hipbones.  

He is leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, his head bent and eyes closed. His normally so immaculate hair in disarray.

He looks like he did when Isak left that morning.

When he's appeared in Isak's mind over the past two weeks, it’s been the frenzy that Isak's remembered. The hungry kisses, the hurried hands. The desperation. That, he can grasp. He can accept that the alcohol, the flirting, the attraction – that it led to that. Quick and intense and physical.

He's been there before.

It’s the other parts of the night that are harder to contend with.

The afterwards.

His own hands carding through Even's hair, tracing his cheekbones.

His eyes roaming Even’s face, counting the moles on his cheek.

His lips on Even’s, kissing slowly, lazily. Barely kissing at all.

His own smile.

 _Contre qui, rose,_ the choir sings. _Avez vous adopté ces épines?_

Isak doesn't know what to do with wonder, with fascination, with interest.

_Mais de qui vous protège cette arme exagérée?_

*

Isak uses the momentum of the audience standing to sing Silent Night at the close of the concert to escape, fleeing amid the rustle of hymnal pages and clearing throats. Outside, the rain has mixed with snow, pricking his cheeks as he unsuccessfully tries to burrow down into his slim scarf.

The world is silent, and he is alone.

It is as it should be.

Isak curls his shoulders forward, digs his gloved hands into his pockets, and starts home.

He needs to find his bearings again. Needs to get back to what he had six months ago. Life was so much easier then. More interesting cases (he tells himself), plenty of summer after work drinks with William and Chris. And he and Julian were _fine_ . Not that they’re not fine now, they’re _fine,_ but six  months ago – six months ago Even wouldn’t have happened. The nameless guy in Bergen, sure, but not Even. Six months ago he would have known better than to act on the electricity of Even’s touches. Six months ago the electricity of Julian’s touches was enough. Almost enough.

Maybe it’s the winter that’s getting to him. Maybe, hopefully, _presumably_ everything will feel better again once the seasons turn and the days start getting longer, once the sun is more than a theoretical concept hidden behind horizon to horizon clouds – but right now... Right now he feels like he’s on a train hurtling from side to side, without any means to hold himself steady. Every time he thinks he’s regaining his balance, the train jerks, and he stumbles.

What he needs is to regain control. Needs to become himself again. Needs to get away from Even, and Noora. Surround himself again with people like him, like the person he wants to be. His co-workers. William, with Chris, rather than Vilde and Sana and Jonas and people who make him feel less and worse. Get back on track.

It's much colder than it was. The sidewalk gleams wet, and through the thin soles of his boots his socks are getting soaked.

He doesn't notice the ice before he’s desperately trying to regain his balance – sliding, flailing.

A firm grip on his upper arm steadies him.

When he turns to face him, Even looks astounded, like he can’t believe what he’s doing, what is happening – but he doesn't let go.

Isak should leave. He should wrestle his arm free from Even’s grip, turn on his heel and get the fuck out of there. Hail a cab, get on a tram, anything to get away from Even.

Get back on fucking track.

He doesn’t move.

Neither does Even.

They stare at each other, seemingly unable to break eye contact. For once, Isak has no idea what his face is revealing. Can Even see how he’s struggling to get his body to obey, how he’s trying to convince his limbs to move, to leave?

Even’s face is full of the wonder Isak has tried to forget.

It is Even who at last breaks the spell, letting go of Isak’s arm and running a hand through his hair. It is so unexpected that Isak still doesn’t manage to react.

“I…” Even begins, before trailing off again and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

The only reason why Isak can’t look away from his mouth is because the eye is designed to be drawn to movement.

Even swallows.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Even sounds rushed, like he’s been waiting for a moment to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to… I never wanted you to be uncomfortable.”

He’s so far from the cocky Even that Isak has gotten used to that he doesn’t know how to respond. Isak’s instinct is, as always when he receives an apology, to smooth it over, claim that it’s fine, don’t worry about it, and with Even looking so uncertain, so small, it’s on the tip of his tongue. But it’s still _Even,_ still the same person who is single-handedly responsible for the turmoil Isak’s been going through the past few weeks, and he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, doesn’t want to let him off the hook.

“I really hope I didn’t out you,” Even continues, and what? Out him? But Isak is… “I shouldn’t have assumed you were out at work just because of... I should have known better. I’m really, really sorry.”

“You… didn’t?” Isak replies, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. Even looks immediately relieved.

“Oh good!” He smiles, and a little of his confidence seems to return. Isak still hasn’t managed to process what’s going on. “Are you going this way?” Even gestures down the street, and Isak only nods dumbly. When Even starts walking, he falls into step with him.

His mind won’t settle. Thoughts and impulses bounce around like in a pinball machine, and Isak can’t manage to score. His legs seem to move him forward without any input from his brain, like Even has taken over control over Isak’s limbs as well as his mind.

They walk in silence for a little while. The temperature has dropped another degree, and the precipitation has turned into soft, wet snow. The snowflakes rest for a moment on Isak’s coat before melting into droplets.

Even keeps looking over at him,smiling. It should make Isak want to get away, should make his skin crawl – and it _does_ , it sends currents from his chest through his arms, to the tips of his fingers. But rather than making him want to bolt they’re making him want to reach out, to touch. To comb his fingers through Even’s hair, wet from the snow.

He keeps his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes firmly on the ground.

“I wanted to tell you,” Even says after a few minutes, “that I was really impressed by you in court the other week.” He’s smiling, and Isak is surprised to discover that there’s no mockery, no teasing there. It really does seem like he’s genuine.

Isak can’t really reciprocate, so he simply nods.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re going to win,” Even continues. He sounds so casual as he says it, like it’s a given. “Because of you, of course, but also, there are some real differences between this and Von Hannover, and I don’t think the judge is going to want to take that step, you know? We’ll probably have to take it to the Supreme Court. If Adam and Mikael think it’s worth it. But we always knew that.” He makes it sound like they’re discussing a case they’re completely removed from, something from the news, a hypothetical example. Like it’s not what they’ve both been living lately.

“So… why did you take it?” Isak just can’t comprehend putting effort into a case he doesn’t believe in.  

Even’s answer mirrors what Jonas told him.

“Adam and Mikael are my friends,” he shrugs. “And they were really bothered by the photos. So if I could do this for them…” He smiles, and for the first time all night, Isak can see a hint of a smirk, a glint in Even’s eye. “And besides, it’s good publicity for me. You don’t even know how many reporters I’ve talked to in the last few weeks. Which I really need right now, trying to stand out as a firm here is… yeah.” His smirk slips for a moment, but before Isak can react it’s back in full force. “Speaking of, did you see the Kollektivet clip?” When Even laughs all of Isak’s nerve endings light up. “I think they got their ranking wrong though.” Isak doesn’t manage to stop the impulse that it’s cute that Even can’t wink.

This is the part where he should say something, if he wants to keep up the appearance that this is a normal conversation, but he can’t think of anything to say. His mind is a jumble, and he can’t manage to hold on to any one thought long enough to put it into words. He wants to be annoyed. Wants to laugh. Wants to forget he ever met Even. Wants to know everything.

He’s supposed to be getting back on track. Supposed to be finding his way back to the life he _wants_ to lead. Supposed to be putting some distance between himself and Even.

They come to a crossroads, and Even stops.

“Well, I’m going this way now,” he smiles, nodding down one of the streets. “It was good talking to you Isak. I’ll see you around.” With that, he turns on his heel and disappears down the road.

When he is gone, Isak realises that he doesn’t know where he is or which road will take him home.


	7. Merits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! As usual, I'm thrilled and thankful and a little amazed at the response this has gotten. You're all so sweet! <3
> 
> My beta is, as always, the amazing [smutfika](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutFika/pseuds/SmutFika). Couldn't do this without you babe! 
> 
> And you should all come talk to me on [tumblr](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com)!

Isak spends Sunday in a daze. After Even had walked away from him he’d been incapable doing anything but follow his retreating back, until it turned a corner and disappeared. Another minute had passed before he thought to take up his phone and figure out how he was going to get home. And when he had finally reached the apartment, he had gone straight to bed, not even bothering to turn on the lights. 

He keeps getting stuck in his thoughts, keeps blinking and realising that an hour has passed. His morning coffee goes cold before he tastes it. He stares at the headlines in the paper without registering them. The streetlights turn off, and on, without him ever leaving the apartment. He tries to do some laundry, and only realises it’s done when the machine’s been beeping for fifteen minutes. 

As he pours the cold coffee down the drain, he tries to sum up Even in his head. If he can just understand Even, he’ll know how to deal with him. People may think they’re unpredictable, but Isak knows that’s not true. People do what they do for a reason. It may be a stupid reason, an irrational reason, but there’s always a reason. 

The problem is that Isak has no fucking clue why Even is acting the way he is. He thought he had him figured out – that Even, the dramatic fucker, had realised when they met again that he was sitting on an advantage. That he could unsettle Isak, could bother him enough that he’d mess up, make mistakes. It was obvious, it was dirty, it was manipulative. What else could it be? 

But then yesterday happened. And no matter how Isak tries, he can’t reconcile the Even he saw again yesterday with the Even that he thought he’d figured out. Because no matter what angle he looks from, no matter how he twists and turns Even’s smiles and looks and actions, he can’t find the teasing that he’s come to expect from how Even behaved in court.

Yesterday, Even had seemed genuine. Isak doesn't understand it.

He sorts out underwear, socks, undershirts from the wet laundry and puts them in the dryer. 

What’s worse is that Isak can’t understand himself. 

Even wasn’t supposed to be different. He was just supposed to be one of the interchangeable men Isak has hooked up with over the past few years, men in hotel bars, after conferences and speaking engagements, all alike in suits and short hair and shined shoes. 

That should have been his first clue. But then again, no one could have guessed that a guy in a denim jacket and bandana would keep turning up in Isak’s life. If anything, the suits were the greater risks. 

He’s almost managed not to think about it. Has pushed it down, far, far down, deep below annoyance and stress, below the feeling of the smooth skin of Even’s hips and the image of Even’s face twisted in pleasure. But after yesterday, he can’t keep it from himself anymore. Even’s enthusiasm when he talked about his travels. His obvious interest in knowing more about Isak. His laugh when Isak acted affronted over his Justin Bieber joke. 

Now that he thinks to look for him, he can see the Even he met in Strasbourg in the Even he saw during the trial. In the passion of his closing argument. In his rapt attention. In how he seemed fascinated even when talking to the reporters. 

The idea that Even probably finds everyone fascinating fleets through Isak’s mind. His stomach twists. He should probably make lunch. 

Isak has never denied the fact that Even’s attractive. Hot, even. He wouldn’t have slept with him is he wasn’t, if there wasn’t at least a little chemistry there. If he didn’t think that it would add something, give him the chance to feel something different – physically, always just physically – than what he feels with Julian. If he didn’t want him. 

What he’s being forced to realise is that Even is not just attractive – Isak is attracted to him. He came home last night wishing that he had asked Even more about his friendship with Mikael and Adam. He woke up this morning wanting to ask why Even moved back to Oslo. He wishes he could ask what Even’s been thinking during the last two weeks, what the trial looked like from his side of the courtroom. What he thought when he, upon exiting the elevator that first Monday, laid eyes on Isak. 

Isak could probably deal with this if it was just about Even looking good. Sometimes, people look good, and he doesn’t necessarily feel the need to act on that. Young Leonardo DiCaprio looks good. Chris looks good. He doesn’t feel the need to sleep with either of them. That’s not to say that he doesn’t sometimes  _ picture  _ them, but that’s something else. And even if he did want to sleep with them – he’s not an animal. He can control himself. 

The problem is that he wants to get to know Even. And that’s where he doesn’t recognize himself. 

This is a situation that he doesn’t have a blueprint for. He’s not even sure what his options are. 

It’s not a feeling he enjoys. 

In most of the situations that he comes across in life, Isak knows how he’s expected to act. He's studied the people around him, knows what’s normal. He mimicked how Jonas made friends at university. Watched William disappear from office parties with Sara, knowing that Noora was waiting for him at home. Listened to office small talk and learned what topics were acceptable, before joining in. 

He doesn’t think William ever wanted to know anything about Sara, apart from the fact that she wouldn’t rat him out to Noora.

Sunday passes, and the daze never clears. Isak goes to bed still not knowing what to do.

When Julian comes home and dumps his bag in the middle of the living room, Isak is already falling asleep. He hears Julian putter around the apartment, go to the bathroom, run the tap as he brushes his teeth, drinks a glass of water. Through the crack under the bedroom door he sees the light in the living room switch on and off, and the door creaks open, slowly. Julian tiptoes in, clearly under the impression that Isak is already asleep. In the darkness, Isak can just barely make out his form as he undresses, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor as usual. 

“Hey baby.”

Julian startles a little. 

“Hey!” he whispers. “I thought you were asleep.” He climbs into bed and burrows down under his duvet before scooting closer to Isak. They lay face to face in the dark, wrapped up in their matching bedding. 

Julian reaches out and pushes Isak’s hair off his forehead, twists a curl around his finger. Drags his nails over Isak’s scalp. It sends ripples of pleasure down Isak’s spine, and he closes his eyes and leans into the familiar sensation. 

“How was your weekend?” Julian whispers. His breath smells of mint, his hair of the cheap shampoo his parents use. “Did you get a lot done?”

“Yeah,” Isak whispers back, “It was okay.” Julian keeps running his fingers through his hair, switching between scratching his scalp and pulling through his hair. As always, it makes Isak’s eyelids grow heavy. He settles a little deeper under the duvet, shuffles to find the optimal sleeping position. 

“What about you?” he yawns. “How were your parents?” 

“Good. They send their love.” Julian moves on to stroke Isak’s face, soft touches to his forehead, cheeks, jawline. “They were sad that you couldn’t make it, but they’re looking forward to seeing us for Christmas.” 

Isak doesn’t exactly buy that, but at this moment, he chooses to trust him. 

“I missed you,” he tells Julian, and believes that it's the truth. He can hear Julian smile when he says it back, but he’s no longer able to keep his eyes open. Julian’s voice drifts further and further away. 

“...but at least this week will be a bit more normal,” he’s saying, “and then next weekend the only thing we’re doing is Sana and Yousef’s wedding, and then we can just relax, spend some time together…” 

Isak feels himself nod, without even really registering what Julian is saying. 

“Baby, I’m going to fall asleep now,” he mumbles.

“Okay.” Julian pushes his hair back one last time. Isak can feel his minty breath come closer, and feels first Julian’s nose against his cheek and then his lips on his own. “Good night, baby. Love you.” 

“Good night. Love you,” Isak mumbles back before turning around, half asleep now.

The night passes in an instant. The only thing Isak can recall from his dreams are hands in his hair, but he can’t remember whose they were. 

*

Isak spends Monday morning doing anything and everything to keep himself from thinking of Even. He avoids William and Eva, tries to focus on his other cases, buries himself in unrelated tasks. For a few hours, it almost works. 

Then Isak gets back from lunch, and is once again reminded. 

Sitting among his unread e-mails, just above an e-mail from Chris about drinks on Friday, is the notice that the verdict has been posted. 

At first, he can't bring himself to open it. Normally, he jumps on every judgement, eager to see who won, what arguments the judge has picked up on, if she agreed with their interpretation of the law – but not today. 

He doesn't know what he’s afraid of. 

Not opening it won’t change the ruling. 

Not reading it won't bring Even closer to him, or further away. 

Won’t make the fog in his mind clear. 

The only thing he can think is that he wants to get far, far away, wants to be anywhere but here, alone somewhere where no one has any expectations of him, somewhere where he can hide and not care. 

He settles for getting another cup of coffee. 

When he rounds the corner, he sees Eva and Vilde by the coffee machine. Eva has her back to him, so he can't see her face, but Vilde is wearing the frown she always wears whenever someone tells her something concerning. 

He hasn’t spoken to Vilde since the advent get-together. He knows Julian texted Magnus afterwards, thanking them for a lovely time. Isak thought of doing the same, of passing by Vilde’s office, of saying something about his outburst, of trying to excuse himself, explain maybe, but he’s just… forgotten. It’s slipped into the cracks between Even’s hands and Even’s dramatics, between Isak’s desire and his annoyance. And now, when she’s right in front of him again, he feels like a little bit of a failure. Like he so often does around Vilde.

“...and I’m just a little worried, but I don't really know her that well,” he hears Eva say as he approaches, when she notices Vilde notice him, she stops.

A moment of silence passes between the three of them. The air is heavy with something that Isak can't put his finger on. Something that might just be his own projection, a manifestation of the cloying fog in his brain. It goes on for a breath too long before Vilde takes the reins of the situation. 

“Isak!” she greets him brightly. “Getting coffee?” The unnecessary observation, coupled with the return of Vilde's normal enthusiasm for everything, dissolves the tension a little. 

Isak is once again reminded that Vilde is worth the effort.

Eva, taking a sip of her own cappuccino, looks a little apprehensive, like she's annoyed that they were interrupted by his arrival. It reminds Isak of why he's there in the first place. 

“We got the verdict in the Extra case, by the way,” he tells her, willing himself to sound casual about it, like it's no bigger deal than any case, like he's no more affected than usual. 

Something passes over Eva’s face, and it takes her a moment too long to answer. 

“Really? That was quick.” 

“I’ll forward it to you.” 

“Yeah… yeah, great.” She wraps both hands around her mug, stares into the foam. “Uhm, I should get back to work.” Her coffee sloshes precariously when she hurries away. 

Vilde is back to looking concerned, but this time, it's directed at Isak. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, frowning, tilting her head to the side. 

Isak isn’t sure how he’d classify his relationship with Vilde. He can never quite determine if they’re friends or not, even if he supposes they must be. But even if he were sure that Vilde was a friend – he doesn’t know what he would tell her. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, because it should be the truth. “Just a little stressed.” 

Luckily, Vilde is not Sana. Sana, Isak knows, would see right through him. She would see his lie where he doesn’t see it himself, would make him think things through. Consider. Vilde never does. Vilde just nods and accepts what Isak says, no matter how sceptical she is.

Isak forgets, sometimes, how fucking grateful he is for Vilde. 

It’s that thought that pushes him to smile at her, and ask if she’d like to get lunch on Wednesday. It feels like the first genuine smile in he can’t remember how long. The way Vilde’s face lights up tells him that it's worth it. 

“Yes! That’d be great!” Isak had noticed, when they started working together, that Vilde had started speaking at a lower pitch than she did when they were kids – but when she’s genuinely excited, she still slips back into her old voice.  “I missed our lunches.”

Isak is relieved to realise that he knows he’s telling the truth when he agrees with her.

VIlde’s smiles gives him the boost he needs to actually open the verdict when he returns to his office. He scrolls, first, to the ruling, and it is as they all knew it would be: the judge ruled in favor of Extra. No surprises there. He skims through the arguments – most of them are still fresh in his memory. Then he settles in to study the judge’s reasoning.

It's too brief. 

It's the first thing he notices. 

Way too brief. 

As he reads, he can feel his good mood slip further and further through his fingers. The reasoning reads like the judge has already gone on Christmas vacation. The balancing test mandated by Von Hannover is perfunctory, and she’s barely considered several of Even and Noora’s key arguments. 

It’s a fucking useless piece of case law. 

It’s not that Isak disagrees with the conclusion – it was always obvious that Extra was going to win, they all knew it – including Even himself! But that doesn’t mean that the judge can just do away with the plaintiffs arguments without considering their merits. Where is the consideration for the fact that the article had a purely entertainment value? Or the fact that Adam and Mikael are just celebrities, not holding public offices? 

Isak can’t even figure out  _ why  _ the judge comes to her conclusion. There’s nothing in the verdict that tells him anything about why the scales tipped in favor of freedom of expression rather than respect for private life in this case, nothing that he’ll be able to use the next time he has a similar case. Nothing that furthers the understanding of the legal texts. 

Fucking useless. 

The judge seems to have been just as blinded as the journalists by Even’s theatricalities – but with the opposite results. Instead of falling at Even’s feet, she has entirely missed the relevant points made by him. 

From nowhere, Isak’s mind conjures the image of how Even’s eyes shone when delivering his closing argument. 

He forwards the judgment to William and Eva with a curt message informing them of the win, and they both answer with congratulations and excitement. Isak doesn’t even open their replies.

*

He promised Julian that he’d work more normal hours this week, so it’s only just past five when Isak packs up his computer and puts on his coat. Before he even opens the door to the apartment, he can smell Julian’s cooking. It smells of warmth and heartiness, of cozyness and efforts made. The lights in the apartment are dimmed, candles have been lit on the table, and Julian has already set the table, despite that usually being Isak’s job. When he notices Isak in the kitchen doorway, he looks pleasantly surprised, and goes to move his phone from the counter, like he was expecting a message from Isak letting him know that he’d be late sooner than Isak himself. They go through their usual routine of  _ hey baby _ and  _ this smells amazing _ and  _ I hope you’re hungry _ , and then the usual silence falls as they sit down to eat. The candles flicker a little, casting shadows over Julian’s cheeks, elongating his eyelashes. 

Finally, Julian breaks the silence to ask Isak about his day. The phrase sounds rehearsed. 

Isak picks a little at his potatoes. 

“It was good,” he answers. Each word feel unnaturally enunciated, foreign from disuse. “We got the judgement in the Extra case.”

“Oh? How did it go?” 

Isak realises at that that he hasn’t told Julian about the trial, about Even’s behaviour, about how they were sure to win.

Julian hasn’t asked, either. 

“We won. But the judgement was appallingly bad, the judge really phoned it in. Just… completely failed to consider a bunch of factors.” Isak can feel the annoyance at the judgement start to spread through his nerves again, ignite them one by one, like bubbles starting to rise in a pot of water. 

“But you won!” Julian smiles brightly, and puts a lid on the pot. “Congratulations babe!” 

There’s not much Isak can do besides smile back, dam up the flood of irritation over the judgement that is threatening to spill out of him, and pick at his potatoes. 

He comes back to it once they’ve gone to bed, once Julian has kissed him goodnight and turned his back to him and fallen into deep sleep. Isak stares into the darkness, at the tiny light that tells him his phone is charging, through the blinds at the hint of a streetlight outside. He can’t let go of how insultingly bad the verdict was. The quality of the judge’s reasoning. And he desperately wants to share it with someone, wants some sympathy for his indignation, wants to rant to someone who can match him in his anger. Like he could do at university, with Jonas, with Noora. It didn’t matter, then, that Julian never cared very much for the finesse of the law, that he saw the law simply as a tool, a means to an end. Isak is just starting to realise that it matters now. Because even if Jonas might still care – should care, he is after all in academia, he should understand the importance of well written case law – he has too much going on in his life to drop everything and let Isak go on about this. Is probably too much in the middle of preparing for the baby, too far gone into his dissertation, to care about Isak’s little case. Care about Isak. WIlliam could be an option, but William is a bit like Julian, in that respect – as long as they won, he won’t care how.

He shouldn’t be surprised anymore by his brain conjuring up Even, but he is. He wonders what Even thinks. He’d said it himself, on Saturday: There are some fundamental differences between this and Von Hannover. And yeah, there are, that was the basis for Isak’s entire argument, and the judge came to the same conclusion – but there should have been an analysis of those differences, not just a statement of them. Even’s counter arguments shouldn't have been glossed over like this. 

He wonders if Even cares. 

Jonas said he was passionate. Jonas said he was passionate and clever. 

Isak may not have the friendship he once had with Jonas, but there is no one he trusts more. 

Maybe that’s the solution. 

If he can’t avoid Even, if his brain can’t let him be, if the universe keeps throwing them together – maybe the answer is to reevaluate him. Move him from hookup to colleague. Because Isak is not Chris, is not William – he steers well clear of his colleagues, of people who are too close to home, of people who might turn up again, who may turn out to be more trouble than a one night stand is worth. 

Usually. 

If he can just see Even as a colleague, a professional acquaintance rather than someone he wants to sleep with – then he’ll be fine. Everything can go back to normal. Even can be one of the pretty faces that he pictures, sometimes, and nothing more. 

It is with that thought still in his mind that he pick up his phone from his nightstand, angling it so that the sleeping Julian won’t be disturbed by the sudden brightness of the screen, and finds Even’s contact details in one of the court documents. 

He sends the text before he can stop himself. 


	8. A Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people! Thank you, as always, for the lovely comments and kudos - you're amazing <3
> 
> Because I decided that I needed to add a chapter to this, chapter 8 means that we're at the halfway point. And it also means that I'm taking next week off - for Life Reasons, but also to clear my head a bit and get around to working on some other stuff, like my big bang fic (side note - if you're a artist, [sign up](https://skambigbang.tumblr.com/)! There's still time, and it's going to be so much fun!). So the next update will be in two weeks. 
> 
> In the meantime, you can hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com)
> 
> (Oh, and I hope the formatting makes sense! Right-aligned texts are Isak, and left-aligned are Even, in case that isn't clear!)

_ TUE 00:22 _

_ Hey. Read the judgement and wanted to let you know I thought it was really poorly motivated.  _

_ Several of your points didn’t come through at all.  _

 

_ TUE 7:17 _

_ Thanks :) _

 

_ So do you think you'll appeal? _

 

_ I don't think we should be talking about that ;)  _

 

_ True _

 

_ Doesn't mean we can't talk about other things _

 

*

Isak’s phone has a new passcode and a new contact named E, and he’s kept it hidden away in his pocket all day. 

Even’s last message keeps echoing in his mind.  _ Other things. Other things. Other things.  _

This was a bad idea. He knows this was a bad idea. Because Even’s right – they shouldn’t be talking, at least not about the case, at least not until the appeal period has passed. But all other topics of conversation seem too dangerous. 

Too appealing. 

There is too much that Isak wants to know, and the safest option seems to be to not ask anything at all. Because every question he wants to ask, every question he would normally ask of a new acquaintance, a professional contact, all his practiced small talk – it all seems to lead down a path that is too intimate. Too friendly. Too personal. 

How can he ask Even about his plans for Christmas, if it will lead to him learning about his family, his parents, maybe siblings, grandparents? 

How can he ask about Even’s travels, without learning too much about how he sees the world?

He wants to go back to Strasbourg. Wants to sit in that hotel bar and listen to Even talk, wants to be pulled into his stories and his enthusiasm. Right now, he thinks he could listen to Even talk, about anything and nothing, for all eternity. 

Isak can’t remember when he last wanted to listen to Julian for all eternity. Maybe he never did. Maybe it’s that Julian isn’t as good of a storyteller as Even, maybe it’s that his interests aren’t as interesting – but right now, Isak thinks that if it were Even who wanted to talk about the pros and cons of various training plans and diets and tapering and fucking strength running he could have listened for hours. 

He always thought it was a good thing, that he and Julian weren’t everything to each other. Had their own interests. That it was mature of them, that they had realised earlier than their friends that they couldn’t – shouldn’t – be everything to each other. That that was one of the reasons why they lasted. Unlike all the rest. Unlike William and Noora. Unlike Jonas and his many girlfriends before Isabell. 

But there’s so much Isak wants to know about Even. He wants to know more about Even than he knows about almost anyone in his life, except Julian. 

He wants to know how Even grew up, if his childhood was happy, if he has any sisters and brothers – and that is something he almost only knows about Julian. He knows Sana has two brothers, but he’s never met them, never met her parents. He knows Vilde’s mother struggled with alcoholism when they were kids, but that’s only due to the rumours that bounded around Nissen in their third year. He’s never met Jonas’ family. The only reason why he knows William’s father is because he’s the boss. But he wants Even to tell him about his childhood, wants to know how he came to be the person he is. 

He wants to know what Even’s goals are. His hopes and dreams. Wants to know if his life is what he imagined it would be.

He wants to know things about Even that he’s not even sure he knows about himself. 

It’s just that he already knows everything that there is to know about Julian. Knows where he grew up. Has met his many cousins. 

They don’t need to talk constantly anymore. 

The texts are innocent enough in themselves, he thinks. Apart from the winking smiley, there’s nothing really incriminating about them. They’re texts you could send to someone you met at a conference, someone you think could be useful in your professional life. He thinks. He hopes.

_ Other things. Other things. Other things.  _

What could Even possibly want to talk to Isak about? Music, again? Case law? Celebrities that Isak has barely heard of? If everything about Even is interesting, nothing about Isak is. He doesn’t have any hobbies – he doesn’t even work out, like Julian. Nothing besides work. What could Even possibly want to know about him?

There is no way that Even is as curious about Isak as Isak is about Even. 

If Julian saw the texts, he’d probably be happy for Isak. He’s always talking about how they (he) should try to be more social, try to meet more people, find more friends with similar interests. He’d probably be proud. Would want to organise something, a dinner party maybe, introduce Even to their “other friends”. Wouldn’t realise that that would just make them both look pathetic, show the world that they have no friends.

He tries to imagine how it would look. Isak, Julian and Even. Julian would be starstruck, probably. Would ask Even about his famous friends, would gush about his travels to Asia. Would downplay their own charter trips, their jobs, their friends. The thought makes him cringe. 

*

 

TUE 17:13

_ You need to tell me more about your love for Justin Bieber ;) _

 

TUE 19:19

_ Hahah _

 

_ You’re alive! _

_ I was starting to think you were a figment of my imagination _

_ Just kidding :) _

_ But I had a really good time with you on Saturday. We should do something like that again. _

 

_ Yeah. Me too. _

_ We should :) _

 

*

Vilde is all sunshine when Isak enters the lunchroom on Wednesday. They tend to be some of the first people there – or rather, Vilde tends to be, just as she tends to be among the first to arrive at the office each morning, and among the first to leave in the afternoon, to go pick up Ella from daycare. Sometimes Isak wishes he had the same flexibility.

Other times, it’s a relief to always have a reason to stay late. 

They used to do this regularly. Have lunch together. Coffee, sometimes. Vilde is the only person Isak regularly schedules lunch with. Or rather, Vilde used to schedule lunches with him. But he knows that she does that with lots of people. Sees it as part of her job to get to know new employees, keep an eye on the interns, be someone that people feel that they come talk to. 

He’s pretty sure that their lunches are different, but he doesn’t dare ask. 

It still catches Isak off guard, sometimes. That Vilde –  _ Vilde! –  _ is one of the people in his life who’s known him the longest. Longer than Jonas. Longer than William. Longer than Julian. Longer than Sana, even, because he met Vilde in their first semester at Nissen, and then got to know Sana through her in their second. 

If anyone had asked Isak at seventeen which of his friends at Nissen he thought he’d stay in touch more than ten years later, Vilde would probably have come last on his list. And he knows that the fact that they are still in touch has very little to do with him, and a lot to do with Vilde. But somehow, as all their other friends drifted off to do their own thing, to new cities, new interests, became new people – Vilde remained, constantly, at the edge of Isak’s life. Through birthday messages, and Facebook wall posts, and Instagram comments, and summer and Christmas meetups when she came home to Oslo to visit her mom and they both needed to get out of the house. Through getting her home to her own bed, or Sana’s, when she was too wasted to understand what was going on around her. Through having to come out, again and again and again, to each new person he met at university. Through parents failing them more times than they cared to count. Through figuring out what kind of adults they could be. Through meeting Julian, and Magnus. 

It’s all due to Vilde’s efforts. She’s never said anything about it – would never think to say anything about it – but Isak never forgets.

He knows he can never match her, so he rarely tries. Doesn’t have the energy to try. Prefers, instead, to press, constantly, on the bruise that is his guilt – over how much he should be doing, but isn’t. 

He guesses it’s slightly better now that they work together. Not very, but slightly. 

He tries not to think about it, doesn’t want to consider what the ramifications could have been if it hadn’t worked out, feels a vague sense of panic when he imagines doing it again – but he’s never regretted e-mailing his boss when he first found out Vilde had applied for a job at MNA. 

Vilde chats away about how Ella’s liking daycare, how Magnus and Aksel are spending their days together. Isak has absolutely nothing to contribute. There is nothing more boring than listening to parents go on and on about how their kids refuse to wear sensible outerwear, or how they’re eating or sleeping or their “cute” stories from daycare. Isak never knows what he’s supposed to say in these conversations, how he’s supposed to respond – the only reference he has for children is his own childhood, and he very much prefers not to think about that. His mind goes again to Strasbourg, to Even’s stories of the people he met in Burma, to the genuine enthusiasm in his voice. The details he remembered about them. 

Isak knows he’ll have forgotten Vilde’s stories by the time he returns to his desk. 

He tries to focus, but he his mind keeps slipping and sliding away from Ella’s obsession with Olaf to the light in Even’s eyes when he talked about the children in Rangoon. His hand in support on Mikael’s shoulder. Even taking a case he didn’t really believe in because his friends were upset. 

Isak could never live up to that. 

When Vilde asks him how he’s doing he repeats his answer from Monday about being stressed. Tells her that Julian is excited for the wedding. Listens to her speculate about how different it will be from her own, what Sana will be wearing, what kind of food there’ll be. Smiles as she slips into nostalgia. 

*

_ WED 15:15 _

_ So do you have any plans this weekend? _

 

_ Work, probably. _

_ What about you? _

 

_ Busy on Saturday, but nothing planned for Sunday.  _

_ If you’re free, maybe a coffee or something? :)  _

 

_ I don’t think I can  _ _ :( _

 

_ No worries <3 another time? _

 

_ Absolutely :) _

 

*

Thursdays is when Julian meets Iben to go to the gym, the mandatory strength training he always complains about –  _ I just want to run, why do I have to lift weights –  _ but always completes, without fail. Isak heats up a frozen pizza and settles in front of the tv, a rerun episode of some shitty American sitcom that he’s probably seen several times already but hasn’t cared enough about to commit to memory. 

It brings him back to before he and Julian moved in together. To nights spent alone in the dark, to frozen food in front of the tv. He hated it then. He isn’t sure how he feels about it now. There’s something comforting about the darkness and the laugh track that for a little while drowns out his thoughts. Lets him focus on the stupid problems of the stupid characters on the screen, instead of on his own. 

There’s something pathetic about sitting alone in the dark, eating pizza, scrolling through Facebook, talking to no one. Having no one to talk to.

The show goes to commercial. He wonders what Even is doing tonight. Tries to imagine him on a similar couch, in front of a similar tv, eating a similar pizza. It’s impossible. 

Even probably never sits still long enough to watch shitty tv.

Is probably never without someone to text for no reason. 

Jonas pops into his mind, and Isak’s heart twists with the urge to call him, to talk to him about – about  _ this.  _ Whatever the fuck this even is. He tries to imagine the conversation in his head, tries to imagine what he would say, what Jonas would answer. There’s nothing. His mind is completely silent, emptier that it has been all week. How would he even begin to describe it to Jonas? Jonas, who knows Julian, who has always know them as Isak-and-Julian, even if it was always clear that he was first of all Isak’s friend. Jonas, who has always come to Isak with his crushes and girl problems, but never the other way around. Jonas, who completely closed down in silent, seething rage when he found out the his girlfriend had kissed Chris at a party? Who’s referred to Isabell as his  _ best friend  _ on multiple occasions, deaf to the sound of Isak’s wrenching gut? He can never tell Jonas that he slept with Even. Slept with people other than Julian. If he wants to keep Jonas in his life in any way he can never know. 

He opens his conversation with Even, again. Doesn’t want to think about how many times he’s read his messages by now. Enough times to know them by heart, almost. Not that there are that many of them, yet, but reading the few words Even has sent him makes something glow inside of him. A single ember in a pile of ashes. 

His last texts to Julian have mostly been about practicalities, interspersed with good nights for the times they’ve slept apart. Arrival times after trips. Coming home late from work. Don’t forget toilet paper. 

The hearts that sign them off don’t change that.

When he first met Julian, they were in constant contact, but now, he can’t remember a single thing they wrote. He thinks there were a lot of hearts, a lot of  _ you’re so hot  _ and  _ you’re so smart  _ and  _ I can’t believe you’re mine.  _ But he’s changed his phone so many times since then that those messages have all been lost. 

He didn’t really talk to Jonas about Julian either. By the time they became close enough, he was already dating Julian, and it just felt... weird. Talking about guys with  _ anyone  _ felt weird. Admitting to anyone but himself that he was gay still felt weird. That someone actually liked him back, liked him enough to want to kiss him, blow him, fuck him – it all still felt too huge, too incredible, too fragile to even really say out loud. And he didn’t know Jonas well enough to know how he’d react – knew him well enough to know that he was fine with Isak being gay – in theory, in a relationship, in the abstract. Didn’t know him well enough to know that he’d be one of the people he could actually talk to. And when he did know him well enough for that, he didn’t have anyone to talk about. 

And now he’s back to not knowing, again. 

On a whim he goes to Julian’s Instagram profile, the one he never uses anymore, except for race photos and travel. He scrolls through the posts, down to the very beginning. There they are. Two nineteen-year olds with woolly beanies and red cheeks. Isak kissing Julian’s cheek, Julian’s blissful smile at the camera. Captioned  _ This one,  _ and a red heart. 

Isak’s not in any of the posts from this year. Even the photos from Mallorca don’t feature him – the closest thing is their two coronas in the sunset, one of them tagged Isakyaki. It’s not for Julian’s lack of trying. Somewhere along the way, Isak just wised up to the fact that splashing your happy relationship all over social media isn’t the done thing when you’re out of university, are an established couple. 

He goes back to his feed. Vilde has uploaded a new picture of Magnus and Ella in the kitchen wearing matching flowery aprons. The caption reads  _ My master chefs.  _

No matter how he searches, he doesn't manage to find an Instagram or a Facebook profile for Even. He looks through all of Jonas’ friends, and then Noora’s. Finally, he googles him. When Julian comes home he’s watched the four news clips he can find of Even three times in a row.

 

*

THU 22:02

_ I don’t think we ever finished debating Kollektivet’s ranking, by the way ;) _

 

_ Haha! I didn’t realise there was anything to debate!  _

 

_ Well, I’m pretty convinced they picked the right winner, at least _

 

*

Chris sent the e-mail about after work drinks to most of the firm, but in the end, as usual, only Isak and William decide to join him. Sometimes, whatever intern Chris has been flirting the most with lately joins, but not today. Isak is really only there because William is. Because if William is there, it can’t be too bad.

On their way out of the building they pass Eva, but, for once, she only snorts out a sort of half-laugh and declines when Chris tries to flirt and pester her into coming. Isak almost feels a little proud. Maybe she’s learning. 

They go to their usual place, sit at their usual table, get their usual drinks. Even Chris’ lewd remarks to the bartender repeat themselves, as do her eyerolls. Nothing ever changes. With Christmas approaching, Chris is taking stock of how many of the interns he’s managed to sleep with so far. Next on his list is apparently enthusiastic Emma. Isak can’t imagine she’ll be very difficult to convince. Most of the interns aren’t, at least as Chris retells it. 

He’s been going on about Emma for a while now, comparing her to Natalie Portman, rating her. It’s a bit much, even for Chris, but it’s only when Isak notices the glances he’s throwing William that he realises that it’s because he’s not getting his usual validation. Not that William is ever one to join in when Chris gets going, but he usually has at least a smirk or two to offer. 

Today he just keeps drinking steadily. 

The three of them have never had the kind of friendship where they talk about their feelings, or whatever. Theirs has been a friendship of parties, of cabin trips where  _ what happens in Hemsedal stays in Hemsedal,  _ trips that meant that Isak was eating instant noodles for months afterwards, but that in the end were worth it. He doesn’t know how many of Oslo’s now top attorneys he’s seen streak in the snow. How many stories he’s helped keep straight in front of girlfriends left at home. 

Not the kind of friendship where you call each other out for brooding. 

Not that Isak’s ever minded. If it hadn’t been for William, he would never have gotten to where he is today. If they hadn’t taken him under their wings and introduced him to their friends, hadn’t given him access to people and places he would never have gained access to otherwise, given him an example of how the world could be worked – he’d probably be stuck in some boring government job right now. Like Julian. 

It’s only when Chris, in a blatantly desperate attempt to get William’s attention, tells them that they have to toast the Extra win, that it clicks for Isak. 

Noora. 

They’ve seen William like this once before – and that was when Noora disappeared. 

Of fucking course. 

Isak could never figure out what the fuck happened between Noora and William. One moment they seemed fine – the next, she was gone. Quit her job, packed her things, left their apartment. No word. Nothing, until Jonas ran into her in Bergen, of all places. 

But then again, maybe they shouldn’t have been so surprised. William and Noora were volatile from the start. Passionate. Dramatic. Raised voices and grand gestures, as often of anger as of romance. 

The scene replays in his head, like a clip from a movie: William locking eyes with Noora upon exiting the courthouse elevator. All the oxygen drains from the air. Sounds mute. Time moves in slow motion. 

It really isn’t that strange that Noora and Even found each other. 

They’re equally dramatic. Noora just hides it better. 

Isak thinks he prefers Even’s drama. At least he seems to have fun.

*

He’s on his way home, swaying precariously on the tram despite holding on to the pole. Perhaps the last drink was a bit unnecessary. Just a bit. Perhaps Julian won’t be too happy – although really, he should know by now what to expect when Isak goes out with Chris. 

And fuck Julian, anyway. 

The thought surprises him, and he has to mouth it silently to himself to make it stick. 

Fuck Julian. 

Yeah. 

Who cares what Julian thinks. 

Not Isak. 

Not right now.

He almost giggles a little at that. He knows he’s a bit drunk, knows he’ll come to his senses in the morning and feel bad for thinking it. But right now, he realises, it’s not Julian’s thoughts he cares about. 

The scene replays in his head, like a clip from a movie: Even appearing, from nowhere, behind him. Isak recognizing his voice even before he turns to look at him. All the oxygen drains from the air. Sounds mute. Time moves in slow motion. 

*

 

_ FRI 19:47 _

_ What did you think when you saw me in court? _

 

_ I was just excited to see you again.  _

 

_ Really? Weren't you surprised? _

 

_ I actually have a confession to make.  _

_ I knew who you were before we met.  _

 

_ You did? How? _

 

_ Saw you talk at that conference.  _

_ You were so passionate _

_ And so fucking hot  _

 

_ Oh.  _

 

_ FRI 21:21 _

_ <3 _


	9. Stressful situations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone! I hope the break wasn't too hard on you <3 Thank you so much for all the lovely comments, kudos, and messages - I really treasure each and every one of them. 
> 
> My lovely beta is, as always, [SmutFika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutFika/pseuds/SmutFika).
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com)

Isak wears a tie to work every day, but tonight it feels like it might strangle him. The weight of his phone in the pocket of his pants threatens to pull him under. With every step he takes, it slaps against his thigh, thumping like a beating heart. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like the heart he texted Even.

A heart he shouldn't have sent in the first place.

Like a heart he should delete. 

The room spins around him. He almost feels like he might need to vomit. It’s too loud, too crowded, and he has no idea what the fuck is going on. 

He should have realised that Sana and Yousef’s wedding would be nothing of what he knows a wedding to be. Not that he's been to any, other than Vilde and Magnus’. But he knows the basic format. A church. A priest. Vows. Dinner. Dancing. Lots and lots of alcohol. 

This is something else entirely. There are so many people that he can't even wrap his head around it, can’t register any individual features. A constant mass of guests rolls in colorful waves through the reception hall. He can only hope that there won't be a fire or something, because they  _ must _ be over maximum capacity. Around him, he hears voices yelling in all languages – Arabic, German, English, Norwegian. The flashing lights are making his head spin, the music makes it pound. 

There are countless ways he and Julian can mess up, countless possible missteps, countless ways to embarrass themselves. 

And he can't even quiet his mind with alcohol.

Julian seems to be having the time of his life. He's talking to the woman seated next to him, a cousin of Yousef’s – maybe? Many times removed? Isak isn't sure – who's flown in from London. Is comparing this wedding to a coworker’s – which none of them attended, which he’s only heard stories from. Isak wants to crawl under the table from shame. He tries to smile, tries to act like he's part of the conversation, like he can’t see that behind her polite smile, the cousin is already spinning this into a story of her own, a joke to tell her friends back home, or worse, Yousef and Sana’s family. He doesn't know what’s more embarrassing – Julian's terrible English, or the fact that his coworker is neither Turkish nor Moroccan, but from Iran. 

Isak really, really wishes he was drunk right now. 

With the nail of his thumb, he tears on the skin around his fingernails. 

Even had texted him back last night, seconds after Isak's last text. A heart. An identical heart to the one Isak had sent him. Isak hasn't answered yet, but he has looked at it for so long that it is seared into his mind. It’s become a filter over his eyes through which he’s seeing to world, distorting Julian making breakfast this morning, talking excitedly about the wedding, buttoning his shirt, lacing up his shoes. Dimming the crisp December day, the blue sky and the glittering frost on the trees on the way to the massive reception hall. A filter over each interaction, over every distant family member he’s shaken hands with and made small talk to. 

Every time he thinks he has things under control, Even makes him step over another line. 

Every time Isak tries to take a step back, uncoil the cord that’s being wound tighter and tighter around him – Even tugs at it, and traps him even more. 

Julian reaches over and takes Isak's hand from his lap, stops the tearing, never letting up in the conversation with the cousin. He soothingly strokes his knuckles with his thumb. 

Isak puts his other hand in his pocket, pushes his phone further down. 

When the cousin finally leaves, Julian turns to Isak and puts his other hand to his cheek. “Hey,” he says softly, stroking Isak's temple with his thumb. “Relax, okay? We’re not the center of attention here. No one cares what we do. Nothing can go wrong. And if it does, no one will care. Okay?” He gives Isak's hand a little squeeze. Isak's phone vibrates against the other one. “Please let’s just try to relax and enjoy ourselves?” 

Isak nods and squeezes back. Pushes his annoyance at Julian’s tone into a tiny corner of his mind, boxes it up and tries to hide it from himself. Julian is right. He's seen it before, knows how insecure Isak gets when he doesn't feel in control. Tries to help by standing close, put a hand to his arm, step in and redirect a conversation so that Isak can take a moment to breathe, regroup. He may not always steer the conversation where Isak would have liked him to – he is a little too interested, a little too enthusiastic, a little too personal for Isak to be entirely comfortable – but still. He tries. And it makes him happy that Isak let’s him try, to be relied on – makes him flush with pride when Isak, afterwards – when they’ve come home, gotten into bed, wrapped themselves in matching duvets so that only their heads are visible – kisses him and thanks him for being there for him. 

He wonders what Even would think of this wedding, what it would be like to be here as Isak and Even instead of Isak and Julian. If he’d use his way of making everyone feel interesting to charm his way through gaggles of aunts and grandmothers and friends.  If he’d grab everyone’s attention, like he's seemed to grab everyone’s attention every time Isak's been with him. If he’d tear up the dancefloor. If he’d swing tiny nieces into the air. If he’d leave having made a dozen new close friends. 

Isak isn’t sure he’d be able to say no if Even asked him to dance. 

He smiles at Julian and leans in to peck him on the lips. 

“You're right. Thank you babe. I’ll try to relax.” 

Julian smiles and kisses him back. Lingers a little. 

“Look who's catching wedding fever!” 

Magnus and Vilde suddenly appear behind them, Aksel on Vilde's hip, Ella hiding behind Magnus, a firm grip on his hand. Julian shoots him a look, a reminder, a  _ come on, you promised you’d get it together.  _ There's nothing he can do besides follow Julian up from their seats and let himself be enveloped by Magnus, give Vilde a half hug while she tries to keep Aksel from ripping her earrings out. 

Julian stands close, close enough to brush his hand against Isak's. Ready to ground him when he thinks he needs it. 

Like Isak is a liability, a firework that hasn’t gone off, to be handled with care unless it explodes and harms those around him. 

He take a tiny step to the side and stuffs his hands in his pockets. His phone brushes against his thigh. 

“So you’re next!” Magnus exclaims, his entire face lit up by his ridiculous grin. It’s a statement, not a question. Isak can see Julian’s jaw lock behind his bright smile, knows his shoulders have tensed up under the soft shoulder pads of his suit jacket. Isak can feel the nausea surging in the pit of his stomach. 

“Maybe. We’ll see,” Julian answers, and Isak is pretty sure that he is the only one who can detect the knife’s edge in his voice. 

Because it’s not like they haven’t talked about it. Or, actually, they haven’t talked about it. Not for awhile. They used to. Often. Or rather, Julian used to, when they had just started dating, laying in bed together, on late Friday nights and lazy Sunday mornings. Used to make plans starting with the words  _ when we’re married.  _ Or  _ we should have this cake at our wedding. This song could be our first dance. We should go there on our honeymoon.  _

After a while, he must have noticed that Isak never answered. 

It’s not that Isak doesn’t want to marry Julian, specifically. He just doesn’t see the point of getting married at all. They have all their paperwork in order, are as close to being married legally as is possible without actually going through with it. They have separate finances, apart from the apartment, and no kids. No plans for kids either, and Isak can’t see that he’ll suddenly wake up one day and jump through the hoops necessary for them to have any. Neither of them is religious. 

There’s just no reason for it. 

He thought they had agreed on that. That they were on the same page. 

“Oh come on! You’re the only ones left now that Sana’s married!” Magnus pushes. “A spring wedding! Or what about during Pride, that would be so cool!”

Isak can barely keep himself from grimacing at the thought of Pride. Of getting  _ married  _ at Pride. 

Next to Magnus, Vilde giggles, and Isak can already see how her eyes are starting to shine as she goes into project manager mode. “You could have a hashtag!” she bubbles. “Like… hashtag Juliak!” 

“Yes! Hashtag Juliak!” 

Magnus and Vilde will have Isak and Julian’s wedding planned in its entirety before the night is over if they’re not stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, Isak can see Julian’s shoulders rise another centimeter, but his smile remains intact.

“We haven’t really thought about it,” he deflects, and Isak can see his hand dangle in the space between them, knows that he wants Isak to grab it, wants Isak to try to ground him now that he’s the one who’s stressed. 

Isak’s phone vibrates against his hand. 

The urge to check his messages, to see if it's Even, to know where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s thinking of him – it almost knocks the wind out of him. He needs to get away, needs to return to the bubble that their texts have created, like a layer of clingfilm stretched over them, giving them their own space that nothing outside the two of them can reach. An impermeable barrier to the world. 

He touches Julian lightly on the arm, sees his disappointment in the momentary furrow of his brow but can’t force himself to resist the pull of his phone. 

“I’m going to get some air.” He tries to smile and speak clearly, but it comes out hurried, mumbled. As he leaves he hears Julian excuse him to Magnus and Vilde,  _ crowds  _ and  _ stress  _ and  _ you know Isak _ . 

*

The temperature is at zero degrees, and the cold penetrates his suit instantly, spreading goosebumps along his arm and thighs. It’s like taking an ice bath – the chill refreshes him from the inside out, clears his mind from all thoughts, and for a moment, he feels pure, emotionless, like he himself is made of ice.

The sky is pitch black. A few snowflakes flutter under the streetlights that are sprinkled around the parking lot in front of him, but they’re gone before they’ve reached the ground. It’s blissfully quiet. Isak just picked the first door to the outside that he saw, and he’s ended up behind the reception venue, away from the main entrance, where a steady wave of guests moves in and out. Here, he is alone. No music, no voices, no neon lights. Just Isak and his thoughts. 

He takes a deep breath, lets the cold fill up his lungs. Tries to make it fill his heart, as well. It’d make everything so much easier, if he could just freeze his feelings. Date them, throw them deep into the freezer, forget about them and find them again when he’s ready to defrost, when they no longer seem to tempting. 

His fingers are stiffening quickly from the cold, so he stuffs them in his pockets, stretches, bends, tries to get them to wake up enough to check his phone. The cold is quickly becoming overbearing, but he’s not ready to go back inside just yet, so he bounces a little on the balls of his feet, clenches and unclenches his toes in his dress shoes. Tries to stave it off, tries to buy himself a few more minutes of solitude. 

He doesn’t notice that there’s someone else there until he sees him push himself off the wall a few meters away. Sees the glow of a cigarette being dropped to the ground, hears it fizz when it lands on wet concrete. 

It’s only when the person passes under a streetlight that he recognises Even. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Even laughs when he reaches him, and that’s more or less how Isak feels. 

“What – why are you here?” It comes out harsher than he thinks but – why  _ is  _ Even here? It makes zero sense. There is no reasonable connection; Sana and Yousef aren’t lawyers, there’s no Bergen connection, Even isn’t Muslim – they have nothing at all in common, as far as Isak knows. 

But Even doesn’t seem to mind. He seems to take meeting Isak in stride – just smiles brightly, with his entire face, crinkles his eyes so that the smile lines around them stand out even more. He smells of cigarette smoke, and the flashback to Strasbourg is so powerful that Isak can’t gather his thoughts, can’t think of anything to say. All he wants to do is grab Even, kiss him, feel the cold tip of his nose and his warm mouth, banish the cold with the heat of his skin. 

So strong that he can’t move. 

“I know Yousef and Elias,” he smiles, and apparently, Isak still looks lost, because he immediately adds, “we went to Bakka together. With Adam and Mikael.” 

The fact that Even’s been just out of his reach ever since he was a teenager hits Isak like a punch to the stomach. He can’t stop the disappointment that floods his veins, fills up every cavity in his body. Where did he go wrong, what misstep did he take when he was young that resulted in them not meeting until now? How many years could they have had together if, somewhere along the line, they had chosen differently? 

The feeling is too massive to put into words, so Isak grabs at the first coherent thought that steps into his mind, instead. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.” 

Even’s laugh is so massive that his eyes disappear. Isak can’t help but get caught up in it – despite the fact that he’s pretty sure that Even is laughing  _ at  _ him, despite the fact that being laughed at is one of his most common nightmares, despite the fact that he wants Even to be impressed by him, not amused. 

He hopes Even laughs often. The fact that he already has laugh lines by his eyes suggests that he does. Isak’s stomach flips at the idea, and he has to smile, stupidly, at Even, has to grin at the thought of Even being happy. 

Through the disappointment, a new feeling wells up, equally alcompassing and terrifying: there is very little Isak wouldn’t do to make Even happy. 

“Just in stressful situations,” Even replies. “Weddings. Before flights.” He winks – or, tries to wink: scrunches up his face and his eyes, and the word adorable shines in neon in Isak’s mind. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever considered another man adorable before. 

The cold doesn’t seem as bad with Even smiling at him. Right now, it feels like he could stay out here forever, like they never have to go inside, never have to emerge from inside their clingfilm bubble. 

“Weddings are stressful?” 

There is nothing Isak doesn’t want to know about Even. 

“Uh-huh. Too many people for me, I never know how to act appropriately, I just keep to my friends and never talk to anyone new. It’s just too overwhelming. If I get married, I think I’d just want something small. On a beach in Thailand, maybe. With just our closest friends.”

And despite the fact that Isak knows that when Even says  _ our  _ he means his and his hypothetical spouse’s, despite the fact that Isak has no wish to go to Thailand, much less jump through whatever hoops are necessary to get married there, has no wish to get married  _ at all  _ – he can’t stop the image of himself and Even in white shirts and lotus flower garlands on a beach at sunset from forming in his mind. 

“But I’m sure you don’t have that problem, nothing seems to shake you.” Isak doesn’t think he’s imagining the admiration in Even’s voice, hopes that he isn’t, even if he can barely believe that Even –  _ Even!  _ –  could admire  _ him.  _ And for  _ that.  _ When Isak’s nerves are vibrating on the outside of his skin everytime he has to interact with people in an uncontrolled space, when he is constantly stretched like a rubber band to the point of snapping in fear of doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, to the wrong person. 

It slips out of him before he can stop himself, a tiny crumb of the parts of him that almost no one knows, that he works so hard every minute of every day to conceal, to the point that Julian is probably the only one who notice. He makes a tiny crack in his facade, like a chip in an ornament that can still be kept out if you put it against a wall – not enough to break, but not nothing, either.

“Oh – no, I hate big weddings. And crowds, in general. Small talk.” 

Even smirks a little at that, but behind the smirk, in the lines around his eyes, Isak can see the smile trying to escape. The street lights glitter in his eyes as he leans closer, puts a heavy hand on Isak’s arm, his breath warm on Isak’s ear. 

“So we should find somewhere more private instead.” 

The shiver that runs through Isak has nothing to do with the cold. 

From somewhere far away, the silence breaks. Music escapes from inside for a moment, then disappears. 

Isak is at war with himself. 

It is one thing that Julian doesn’t need to know everything that happens when Isak is out of town. 

It is one thing that Julian doesn’t need to know who Isak is texting. 

It is one thing that Julian doesn’t need to know everyone that Isak befriends. 

Isak’s heart is pounding in his ears, trying to drown out his thoughts. Every nerve ending on his body sparks, electricity pulses through every vein. If Even turned and started walking away, Isak’s feet would follow.

But Even doesn’t. Even smiles at him, and cocks an eyebrow, keeps his hand on Isak’s arm, and lets Isak decide. 

“Isak?” 

Julian’s voice rips their clingfilm bubble to shreds and crumples it up to nothing.

Isak sees it happen from the outside, like he’s not part of what’s unfolding. Like he’s watching a movie. Like it occurs in slow motion. 

Even pulling his hand back, reluctantly, still smiling, privately, intimately at Isak. How his brow furrows in confusion when his hand on Isak’s arm is replaced by Julian’s. The slow realisation on his face, in his faltering smile and smoothed out laugh lines replaced with a tiny, wondering frown between his brows, when Julian smiles at Isak and says,

“There you are, babe. I was starting to worry.”

Even’s smile never reaching his eyes when Julian stretches out his hand in greeting and introduces himself. 

“Julian. Isak’s boyfriend.”

Julian wrapping his arm around Isak’s waist, and speaking only to him. 

“We should probably go inside, I think they’re about to cut the cake.” 

When he steers them towards the door, Isak can feel the tension in Julian’s arm. 

Even doesn’t follow them. 

Once inside, they find Vilde and Magnus again, and Julian’s smile is back in full force. Isak searches Julian’s face, voice, shoulders, looking for more signs that he saw what he must have seen, understood what he must have understood, but finds nothing. Julian is as happy, as sociable, as friendly as Isak has ever seen him. Holds Aksel so that Vilde and Magnus can dance. Twirls Ella. Hugs Sana and Yousef, gushes about the beautiful wedding. 

If anything, his mood seems even brighter than before. 

When they finally get home, night is becoming morning, and Julian crashes straight into bed. Kisses Isak goodnight as if nothing is different. Falls fast asleep. 

Isak’s mind won’t let him do the same. The night replays in his mind, over and over again. Again and again and again he watches Even’s face, falling smile, frown in confusion. Again and again, in slow motion. 

When he falls asleep the sky is already turning gold and purple at the horizon. Before he succumbs to sleep he finally remembers to check his messages. 

Two unread, both from Even. 

 

SAT 22:02

_ I’m at a wedding, and I can’t stop thinking of you.   _

 

SAT 22:22

_ Wish you were here with me <3 _


	10. Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every week, I'm just completely blown away by all the lovely comments you leave me! It's just incredible to me how many people are reading this, and how many of you like it. I hope you know how happy it makes me! 
> 
> My wonderful beta is [SmutFika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutFika/pseuds/SmutFika), my tumblr is [here!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com/)

The tram rattles, and Isak almost loses his balance. It’s too crowded for him to be able to reach the pole, so he bends his knees a little, tries to steady himself. 

It’s Tuesday, and Julian still hasn’t said a word about what he saw. 

It’s Tuesday, and Even isn't taking Isak's calls. 

Isak feels like he’s drowning. He’s been taught that when it happens in real life, drowning looks nothing like it does in the movies. A person who’s drowning doesn’t flail, or scream. They go still and silent, and then sink slowly to their death. 

That’s what Isak feels like. 

Like he should move, should react, but can’t. 

Like his muscles have been frozen stiff from cold water.

He’s completely numb. 

*

He can’t react because there’s nothing to react to. 

Julian’s been acting exactly the same as always. He gets up for his long run at the same godforsaken hour as always on Sunday morning. Isak wakes up to the sound of the whirring blender and omelette sputtering in the frying pan as always, the same low volume radio show as always. He kisses Isak good morning, tastes of below zero temperatures, salty sweat and energy gels – as always. Talks to his parents on Sunday evening. Prepares his lunch for the next day.  Goes to bed early to feel prepared for the work week. 

It leaves Isak completely bewildered. 

He’s never imagined how Julian might act if he ever found out about the other men. The thought just never entered his head, just like thoughts of Julian never entered his head when he was with someone else. The Isak at home with Julian has always been a completely different person from Isak out of town, and he never actually expected those two circles to interact.

No one does. 

Isak isn’t even sure he remembers the first time he slept with someone other than Julian. It might have been in Reykjavik, the celebration dinner after the Nordic ECHR Moot Court – that redhaired Danish guy who had been sending him looks all week. Who had ended up sitting across from him at dinner, as if by chance, and then insisted he wasn’t gay after blowing Isak in the hotel bathroom. 

Or there might have been someone before him, forgotten in a drunken blackout. 

Julian might not have been Isak’s first  _ person  _ – there were girls in high school, girls who kissed him and who he kissed back, girls who tried to go down on him while he pretended to be more wasted than he was. He had even had a girlfriend, for about a month, when he was fifteen. But Julian was Isak’s first guy. Of course he wanted to experience something else – someone else – as well. It would be weirder if he didn’t. 

Isak was Julian's first everything. 

The first time they kissed had been in the disgusting kitchen of Julian’s student housing. The kitchen he shared with four other people, one of which happened to be Iben. Iben, who happened to be dating Chris at the time. Who had happened to invite them both to the same pre party, completely unaware of the eyes they had been making at each other. 

When the rest of the party had moved out, they had hung back, busied themselves with gathering up beer cans and going to the bathroom, ignoring raised eyebrows and winks and lewd gestures. 

It had been sloppy. Too wet, too much tongue, hands too grabby. And despite that – a revelation. How Julian smelled of hair wax and men’s deodorant instead of flowery perfume. How his stubble and dry skin scratched Isak’s cheek, his bit-down fingernails caught in Isak’s hair. 

Isak had woken up the next morning with a stiff neck and Julian’s elbow poking his side. Both of them still too drunk on the entire experience to want to leave the bed. They had spent the entire day there, kissing, touching, exploring. 

Now, they're efficient. Quick. Know what buttons to push, where to touch, how to suck and kiss and lick to get each other off as smoothly as possible. 

They fit together. 

Complement each other. Like two pieces of a puzzle, that go together just because they are opposites. That would be useless if they were the same. 

Julian and Isak work because Julian isn’t as ambitious as Isak. Because Isak isn’t as easily stressed as Julian. Because Julian is messy were Isak is neat, and Julian cooks healthy meals for them where Isak would probably just eat out every day, if he lived alone. 

It works, and it’s worked for so long now. Looking back, Isak is pretty certain that he wouldn’t be where he is today if it wasn’t for Julian. His unwavering support, that might not always look like Isak would like it to look, but which is always there.  No questions asked. Julian’s never questioned a single late night at work, a single Sunday spent at the office. Has stayed home. Kept himself busy. 

It’s always been one of their strengths – that they don’t depend on each other for everything. That they both have their own interests. Neither of them has ever demanded that the other sacrifice anything. They always implicitly, silently, agreed that they should be independent. They’re not each other’s best friend, and that’s okay. Isak doesn’t go to Julian’s marathons, he can barely imagine anything more boring than standing around in the rain, or the heat – the weather is always wrong – waiting for hours just to see him amble by for a few seconds. And Julian has never joined Isak when he hangs out with William and Chris, or goes to an interesting lecture, or back when he joined clubs in university. 

But they’ve always been there for each other. Julian has always been the one Isak returns to. 

For ten years. 

Ten fucking years. 

Isak doesn’t even know who he is without Julian. He’s never been an adult without him. 

Sometimes he wonders what his life would be like if they had never gotten together. Would he have followed Jonas around like a shadow for five years, drinking in his anti-establishment views, ignoring the fact that unlike him, Jonas never really needed to study for his grades, only to end up in a job like Julian’s, miserable and discontent? Or would William’s friendship have been enough? 

Is he enough in himself that he would have ended up here anyway? 

Where would he have ended up if he had met Even before he met Julian?

Everything in his life is tied up with Julian. They own an apartment together. Are invited places as a couple. Are friends with other couples. His friendship with Vilde survives because Julian is friends with, and works with, Magnus. Now that Sana and Yousef are married it will probably be the same with them. 

Julian was there when his mother passed. Sat by his side through the funeral.

Isak is in all the family pictures at Julian’s parents house. His father’s 60th and his grandmother’s 80th. 

For all that Isak relishes his alone time – his trips, his Thursday nights – he can’t imagine not having Julian around. Can’t imagine him not being the constant in his life. 

*

Work is usually Isak’s haven, the eye of whatever storm he’s currently experiencing inside his head, the one thing he does where he completely, undeniably knows his worth. It’s what settles him, when everything else in uncertain. 

Except now, it isn’t. 

He can’t focus for shit this week. He’s been trying for a while now – he has no idea for how long –  to pull himself together enough to get through some of his unanswered emails, but he just can’t seem to manage it. His eyes won’t focus – they keep ending up somewhere far inside his computer screen, staring, unseeing, on some imaginary point deep inside the pixels. His thoughts are racing around in circles, like a roller coaster – up and down, in loops and twists and turns, but always on the same fixed path, always returning to the same beginning and end: 

He can’t imagine life without Julian. 

He doesn’t want to stop getting to know Even. 

He rubs his hands over his face, tries to rub away the thoughts, just for a few minutes. Okay. Focus. He puts his fingers to the keyboard, tries to understand the message – again, this must be the third, maybe even the fourth time he reads this email – but just as he’s about to start writing, trying to hit the right tone for this particular client – and this client is especially particular – a knock on his doorframe interrupts him. 

The door isn’t entirely closed – even if he doesn’t exactly like it, it’s firm culture to keep your door slightly ajar unless you’re working on something sensitive, or are with a client – and when he looks up, he sees Eva sticking her head in through the gap, dressed in her coat and scarf. 

It sends him, for a moment, into a slight panic. Has he forgotten a meeting? Do they have something to discuss? Has there been a development in the Extra case? Has someone found out about him and Even, could this risk the whole case? The roller coaster in his mind adds some new twists and turns, an upside-down stretch and another hill. 

Eva smiles a closed-mouth smile. Isak’s only ever seen her bursting with confidence – older than the other junior associates, obviously experienced and with a tendency to say things like “I worked a story like that once” or “I did a job in Mombasa” – but now she seems off, even nervous. Like maybe she’s messed up – except her work’s never been anything but exemplary. Maybe he should tell her that. 

He tries to smile back, tries to look inviting, because he doesn’t want to get a reputation for being difficult to work with. He still has a few years to go before he can afford that. 

“Hi, uhm, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get lunch together?” 

It takes Isak a second even to understand what she’s saying. He usually just eats at his desk, or with Vilde. Occasionally, very occasionally, with William or Chris. But no one just – asks him to lunch. 

“Uh, sure,” he finally answers. “Uhm. Let me just… finish this.” He makes a little show of closing the window of the email – it’s still empty, there’s really no point to it – and locking the computer screen. He grabs his own coat, checks that his wallet is in his pocket, and wraps his scarf around his neck. 

They end up getting Thai food. Eva staps at her cashew nuts, and Isak wonders what they’re doing here. They’ve made all the small talk he can muster – he’s asked her where she studied, despite already knowing, and then he’s confirmed that she used to be a journalist. Now he’s debating with himself whether it would be too forward to ask why she changed careers and if he should wait until they know each other better, or if waiting will just make things more awkward later on. He keeps making that same mistake – holding back on questions to avoid prying, only to realise later on that they were questions he was supposed to ask. 

He’s been chewing on a piece of chicken for far too long, trying to avoid speaking, when Eva, thankfully, puts him out of his misery. 

“I, ehm –” she hesitates for a fraction of a second before continuing. “I asked you to lunch because I thought maybe you should hear this from me.” She gulps down a cashew. Isak can’t even tell if she chews it at all. “Since you know Noora.” 

That was probably the last thing he expected Eva to say. The only response he can think of is to nod slowly and stare dumbly at her.

“I – I’m quitting MNA.” She pushes some rice around on her plate with her fork. It leaves a faint trace of soy sauce behind. “I’m going to join a firm that a friend of mine just started – Berg Tatouti. Uhm, because of Noora.” 

“Because of Noora?” The words escape him before he can stop them, but he just can’t get it to make sense. What does Noora have to do with any of this? 

Finally, Eva looks straight at him. She puts down her fork and lowers her shoulders, and Isak knows because he does the same thing – this is the part she’s prepared. 

“Noora and I are seeing each other. And I’ve thought about it, and for me, that means I can’t keep working at MNA.” It seems like she’s expecting him to protest, because she rushes to continue. “And I know that I’m probably giving up career opportunities, and that if I just keep working here for a few years it could lead to lots of great things, but –” her confidence seems to falter again for a second, and she drops her gaze a little – “but I think this is what’s right for me and Noora. And I need to prioritize that.” 

It’s a situation Isak doesn’t have a script for. He still isn’t sure why Eva is telling  _ him  _ this – he’s not even close to Noora anymore, hadn’t seen her for years when this case suddenly brought them together again. 

Eva’s looking at him expectantly, clearly expecting some kind of reaction, and Isak just wishes he knew what it was. 

Instead, he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I – Okay. But you know I’m not that close to Noora anymore? She left.” 

He knows from the way Eva’s smile vanishes and her eyes harden that he should not have said that last part. 

“She didn’t  _ leave, _ ” Eva bites back, and there’s an edge in her voice that wasn’t there before. Any trace of nerves is gone. “She had to get away, and that was the only way she could see out.” She cocks her head, appraises Isak, like she’s observing the reactions of a witness. Out of nowhere, Isak gets the idea that Eva could play a police in a tv crime drama. “You know, she said that maybe you didn’t know, but I was sure you must have known.”

“Known about what?”

“You know... William cheating on her. Not listening to her, pushing her to do things she didn’t want to do. Always putting himself first. Not respecting her opinions.” She takes another bite of her food, chews it thoroughly before swallowing and answering. “She was convinced that if she told him she was leaving, he’d have convinced her to stay. Somehow.” 

*

The work week is almost drawing to a close. There’s only one day left, and then, finally, the weekend. Isak isn’t sure if he’s dreading it or looking forward to it. 

Julian still hasn’t said anything. Is still going about as usual. He will be at the gym with Iben tonight, as usual. Has even started talking about making weekend plans, as usual. 

Even still hasn’t answered Isak’s texts. Hasn’t taken any of his calls. 

He’s been trying to reach him all week, ever since Sana and Yousef’s wedding. The first thing he did when he awoke from restless sleep on Sunday was check his messages, to see if Even had responded to his frantic apologies. Then, when Julian was in the shower, he shut himself inside the office and tried calling. Only a single signal went through before it went to voicemail. Against all his instincts, Isak actually left a message. 

He’s kept trying. All week, he’s kept trying. Has texted, several times a day. Has tried calling at different times, on the off chance that Even was just in a place where he couldn’t talk the first time. 

His messages are always more or less the same: apology upon apology for how Even found out. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He isn’t sure how it was supposed to go, but not like this. Even and Julian weren’t supposed to find out about each other in this way – weren’t supposed to find out about each other at all. At least, not yet. 

He isn’t used to this – this  _ not knowing.  _ Isak is used to having a plan, is used to knowing what the goal is and acting accordingly – but with Even, the goal keeps on moving, and he can’t keep up. At first, it was sleeping with him – just sleeping with him, because he was hot, and interested, and looked like he could be a good fuck. Looked like the kind of guy Isak was into, once, before Julian. Then, the goal was to get him off his back. To win. To show him up in court, teach him that the justice system isn’t a joke, that you can’t just act however and expect to win. But then Even got under his skin, and suddenly, the goal was to get to know him. To get closer. And somewhere around there, and Isak can’t even pinpoint when, all goals went out the fucking window – and now, all he wants is to be near Even. To be allowed to touch him, kiss him. To hear him talk. Tell stories. And he doesn’t know what that means. 

And he doesn’t know what it means for him and Julian. 

He doesn’t like it.

He’s realising, now, that he should have figured that out first. Somewhere between meeting Even and starting to want to get to know him better, he should have settled on a goal. Maybe if he had, he’d know what to do now. 

He hadn’t even really thought about the fact that Even didn’t know about Julian. Everyone knows about Julian. His colleagues, most of his professional contacts, opposing counsels. Just like he knows of their wives and children, despite never having met most of them. So it never occurred to him that Even might  _ not  _ know.

It’s not like he lied to him. Not on purpose. He would have told him. Eventually. Probably. When he had figured out where this thing with Even was going, he would have told him. Of course he would have. But it just didn’t seem that important. What was important was Even. 

And now that he thinks about it – he doesn’t really know Even that well, either. He knows why he took Adam and Mikael’s case, knows that he’s friends with Sana and Yousef – but he doesn’t know anything about his family. Doesn’t know why he left Bergen, or what made him move there in the first place. Doesn’t really know anything about his past, except the tiny, shallow crumbs that Even has fed him. That he saw him at that conference, what feels like eons ago now but was really a few, short weeks – just barely over a month. Knows a little about his travels, but not why he went travelling in the first place. 

He would have asked. If he had gotten the chance – gets the chance, because he  _ must  _ have a chance, still – he would have asked.

He will ask. 

This time, he won’t let his uncertainties get the best of him. Won’t worry about if it’s the right time, if he’s being too familiar, too intrusive. 

Because he’s pretty sure that Even wants to know, too. 

It’s just the question of what knowing  _ means.  _ If it means anything at all. 

Isak feels like he’s drowning, and he can’t force himself to move. 

He keeps being pulled towards Even, and he doesn’t even know him. He and Even aren’t on a roller coaster, they’re not even on a train. There’s no fixed track. If anything, they’re on foot, going God knows where. Into uncharted territory. 

And then there’s Julian. Who grounds him. Who’s stood by him. Who he can’t imagine a life without – because he’s never experienced it. 

Who still hasn’t reacted to what happened, and they’re coming up on a week. 

Isak pulls his phone out of his coat pocket, and texts Even, again. 

The tram rattles. He almost loses his balance, but bends his knees a little. Tries to steady himself.


	11. Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, you're all wonderful with your comments and encouragement, and I love you all <3
> 
> The chapter title this week is from Anna of the North's song by the same name. 
> 
> My wonderful beta and most patient cheerleader is as always the amazing [SmutFika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutFika/pseuds/SmutFika). My tumblr is [here.](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com/)

It’s 2:34 am on Saturday, and Isak turns over in bed, again. 

He’s been trying to fall asleep for hours, but his mind refuses to quiet. It keeps recycling the same images, the same memories, relentlessly. 

Even’s laugh. Even’s voice. Even’s hands. Even’s lips. 

Julian helping him prepare for his job interviews. Julian making him breakfast. Julian listening to him rant about shitty colleagues. 

Julian, who’s always been there. Even, who he’s always thinking of. 

He can’t imagine his life without Julian. He doesn’t want to imagine not getting closer to Even. 

He’s going to have to choose. He knows he has to choose. If he wants…  _ something  _ with Even, he’s going to have to end things with Julian. 

Does he? 

He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He always used to know. 

Or maybe he just thought he knew. The great career, the great apartment, the great relationship.

Normalcy. Stability. Success. 

He reaches for his phone, again, despite having just put it down. His last message to Even is still unread. He stares at the single checkmark, willing it to duplicate. Nothing. 

He’d have to scroll for a while to get to Even’s last message. A long chain of unanswered messages have pushed it away, an unbroken chain of  _ I’m sorry, please answer me, I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.  _

He sent the last one a few hours ago, when Julian had fallen asleep and he thought that he was about to as well. Maybe Even is sleeping, maybe that’s why he hasn’t read it. 

But that doesn’t explain why he hasn’t read any of the messages that came before it. 

Isak switches to Facebook. He has to look at something else for a while. He tries to force his mind to focus as he scrolls through his feed, but he can’t convince himself to pay attention to the baby pictures and the vaguely racist articles that old acquaintances are sharing. 

He almost scrolls past it. 

_ Noora Særtre is in a relationship with Eva Kviig Mohn.  _

Isak hasn't seen a Facebook update from Noora since before she left Oslo. She was never a big social media user. 

_ This is what’s right for me and Noora. I need to prioritize that.  _

Eva could be a brilliant lawyer. Truly brilliant. She’s thorough. Clever Liked by everyone in the firm and all their clients. 

He’ll only acknowledge it because he knows she’s quitting, and only to himself, but – Isak knows that she has the potential to become a better lawyer than him. 

And now she’s leaving the firm. 

He at least thought she’d stick it out for a while. 

It’s not that associates don’t quit – plenty of them do. Especially the female ones. When they hire new associates, the majority are always girls. But then they get married, or pregnant, and sooner or later, they quit. Go to the public sector, or inhouse. Among the partners there are only a few women. 

He would have thought Eva was better than that. 

_ I need to prioritize me and Noora.  _ What does that even mean? What does it matter to Noora where Eva works? What does it matter to Eva that Noora and William used to be in a relationship? Granted, he doesn’t know Eva very well – but she seems rational. He hasn’t gotten the impression that she’d be the jealous type. And unless Noora’s changed a lot from when they knew each other at university, he knows that she isn’t either. She never seemed to have a problem with William hanging out with other girls, with him partying without her. She must have known that she was always the one he returned to. 

And Noora and William ended so long ago. 

Julian sniffles a little in his sleep, shuffles further down under his duvet. 

Isak has never made a sacrifice like that for him. He tries, but he can’t picture a situation where he would. Julian knows how important Isak’s career is to him, knows how hard he’s worked – works, still – for it. Julian would never ask that of him. 

Could he give up his career if Even asked him to? 

He doesn’t know. 

How can he know, when he barely even knows Even? 

After all, they only just met a few weeks ago.

Compared to ten years. 

Ten fucking years.  

But Eva and Noora haven’t known each other that long either. A few, measly weeks. How can Eva already know enough to choose Noora? How can she know that they will last? That she won’t regret it, in a few months, or years – regret that she didn’t think rationally, didn’t put herself first? 

Will Isak regret it if he gives up the life he has now for Even? 

How is he supposed to know? 

All he knows is that he hasn’t been able to stay away from him. 

What would choosing Even even mean?

What would he be giving up, if he chose Even over Julian? 

His safety net. His routine. 

Knowing what to expect when he wakes up in the morning, comes home at night. Knowing what to say, knowing what answers he’ll receive. 

Would he miss it? 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to imagine that it’s Even under the other duvet, but it’s useless. He’s slept enough nights with Julian that he’d know his breath anywhere. 

He hasn’t managed to forget a single detail about Even – including what he sounds like when sleeping. 

Would Even make him breakfast on the weekends? 

Would he miss Julian making him breakfast? 

Would Even leave his shoes all over the hallway, sweaty running gear on the bathroom floor?

Would Isak care if he did? 

He almost drifts off to sleep, closes his eyes, just for a minute. He sees Even in the apartment, sees him sprawled on the couch, hears his laugh. Then he’s once again staring out into darkness.

He just wishes someone could tell him what the fuck he should do. Maybe Jonas, or Sana. He wants Jonas to look at him in that expectant way that he used to, just wait Isak out until he’s ready to let his thoughts flood the dam he’s built in his mind. He wants Sana to use her most piercing stare and tell him to get it together, give him a spontaneous speech that would tip the scales, allow him to actually make a decision. 

But he can’t tell Jonas or Sana about this. 

When Jonas met Isabell – when he first moved to Bergen and they still talked, sometimes – he couldn’t stop telling Isak about her. About things she had said. About her job, despite the fact that it seemed like the most boring administrative job ever. About her friends, her family. And Isak could never understand it. Could never understand the compulsion, couldn’t understand how Jonas could be constantly thinking of her, even when she wasn’t around. Even when he had just come back from hanging out with her. Even when they were apart for only a few days. 

He understands now. 

If he had someone to talk to, Even would be all he talked about. He wants to tell someone – anyone – everything about him: wants to relate his stories, wants to tell his jokes. Wants to begin to try to explain what he looks like when he smiles, what that thing is that he does with his eyebrows, even though he knows it would be pointless. He wants someone else to notice his voice, how it makes the whole world rumble. 

That’s all he wants. 

Isak checks his phone – the chain of texts, Facebook – one last time at 5.48. Outside their window, the first car of the morning – or maybe the last cab of the night – drives by. His mind has finally settled. He knows what to do. 

*

Isak wakes up on Saturday to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of pancake batter sizzling in the pan. 

He wishes he could pull his duvet over his head again. Turn off all his senses. Shut the world out. All of the resolve he had managed to muster before he fell asleep, any conviction – it all evaporates in the light of day, like the frost on their windowsill that’s already been melted by the mild winter sun. 

Julian only makes pancakes for breakfast on Isak's birthday. 

Isak can't remember if he’s ever made Julian pancakes. He usually buys his birthday present in a rush the night before. Has the cashier wrap it in store branded paper. 

Would it have made a difference if he had been better at remembering anniversaries, and birthdays, and special occasions? Could all of this have been avoided? 

But Julian's never seemed to mind. He's never said anything. 

At least, not lately. 

Julian's already dressed when Isak enters the kitchen, wearing his fluffy robe. An ancient race t-shirt and sweatpants – his Saturday uniform. His hair is matted and stringy with old product, but they don't have plans and there's no point in washing it today when he has his long run tomorrow. Beside him on the counter is a mug of steaming coffee, filled to the brim.

It's like every Saturday. 

Every Saturday for the past few years. 

If Isak goes through with this, he might never have this again. Julian making him breakfast, reading different sections of the weekend edition of the paper, switching when they're done. Drinking buckets of coffee. 

He’ll have that with Even instead. 

He wonders what kind of breakfast Even eats. 

Do they read the same morning paper? 

If not, maybe they can have two papers. 

The spot of floor that always creaks, creaks when Isak enters the kitchen, and Julian looks up from the stove and smiles at him. 

As far as Isak can tell, it's the same smile as always. 

He wets his lips, and tries to clear his throat of morning debris. 

Saturday stretches out in front of them, and Isak knows exactly what it will look like if he doesn't do this now. 

Breakfast. Then he’ll do a bit of work, and Julian will read a book, or scroll aimlessly on his phone for a few hours. They’ll do some laundry, maybe tidy the apartment. Julian will make an elaborate dinner. Dessert. Wine. 

There won’t be a single moment, from now until they go to bed again, where he’ll have a better opportunity to say this. 

That doesn't make it easier to say it. 

He had an entire speech prepared. Before he fell asleep, he drafted the entire thing. It was reasoned, and mature, and in his mind, Julian understood, and agreed. 

He's forgotten every word of it now. 

Julian looks at him, and Isak knows, can see the very moment he realises. The way his face falls is eerily familiar. 

Can see how his mouth prunes, how he starts blinking rapidly, before turning back to the stove again. 

“Can I drink my coffee first?” he asks, and his voice is low, like he doesn't trust that he’ll manage to keep it from breaking if he speaks at a higher volume. 

Isak swallows. 

“Okay.” 

He doesn't know what else to do, so he fills his own cup with coffee and sits down at the table. The sun shines aggressively through the window, shining a spotlight on the dust particles whirling through the air. The batter fizzles. The minute hand of their clock takes a step sideways. Julian sniffles silently. 

Finally, Julian turns around, places a pile of pancakes on the table and sits down across from Isak. There are dried tears in the inner corners of his eyes. He wraps his hands around his mug, grips it desperately, like it's the lifebuoy keeping him afloat. 

He chews on his lip, pulls at the chapped skin with his teeth. His eyes almost find Isak’s. Isak's almost find his. It's like they’re two negative poles, coming close but never latching on to each other. 

Julian breaks the silence first. 

“What can I do?” 

His voice is small. Pleading. 

“Am I boring? Is that why? I can be different, we can try new things, just tell me what you want me to do.” 

“No, that’s not –” Isak tries to break in, but the words pour out of Julian in an unstoppable stream. 

“Is it because I want children? Because we don't have to have children. It's fine, I don't need to. And we don't have to get married, if you don't want to, this is fine, I’m fine with how things are now, but if you’re not just tell me what I can do, I can change, just tell me how.”

Isak doesn't say it, of course he doesn't say it, but there's only one thought in his head:  _ It's because you’re not Even.  _

But Julian's sniffles, the cracks in his voice – it gives him the confidence to go on, steadies the ground beneath him. So he says the one thing he remembers from his speech. 

“I just don't think we’re right for each other anymore.” 

And then, in a moment of clarity, he manages to latch on to what Julian just said. 

“We don’t want the same things. You should be with someone who wants what you want in life.” 

“But I want to be with you.” Julian is almost whispering now. 

“I don't want to be with you. Not anymore.”

*

Julian shuts himself in the bedroom after that. Through the door Isak can hear him sob. He shuts himself in their office, and opens up his laptop. The words on the screen swim before his eyes. Out of focus. 

Their coffee cups are still on the kitchen table, together with an untouched pile of pancakes. 

Normally, he would have tried, awkwardly, to comfort Julian. But how do you comfort someone whose heart you’ve just broken? 

He's still wearing his robe, despite it being well into the afternoon now. In his pocket is his phone. 

He wants to text Even. Needs to text Even, needs to tell him, needs to let him know that he's made a decision. That he’d chosen him. 

Even still hasn't opened his last text. 

But maybe this isn't something you tell someone over a text message, or even a phone call. 

*

Julian knocks on the office door a little while later. 

They're people who knock around each other now. 

“I talked to Iben, and I’m going to stay with her for a while,” he says, and his tone is oddly formal, like they're colleagues and he’s informing Isak of a meeting, or updating him on a project. There's nothing left of the desperation he showed at breakfast. 

“Are you sure?” It seems reasonable to Isak that Julian should be the one to stay in the apartment. That he shouldn't have to leave it as well as Isak. But Julian shakes his head at the suggestion.

“I don’t think I can be here right now. I need to get away for a bit. But can you give me, like, an hour or something, alone? So I can pack? And then I’ll go to Iben’s, and we can sort out all the practical stuff later.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Julian takes a step to the side when Isak passes him in the doorway on his way to the bedroom, to put some clothes on. When he leaves the apartment, neither of them says goodbye. 

*

The sun is setting now, coloring the sky pink and orange and yellow. The sky is clear, and the cold nips at his cheeks. He knows they’re rosy, knows that he’ll looks fresh and healthy when he gets inside again, like he's been on a walk in the forest or skiing, not giving his boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – time to pack up some of his things and get out of the apartment. Isak can't decide if it fits the mood or not. 

He doesn't know what he’s feeling, doesn't know what he's supposed to feel. If there's a template for this, he hasn't seen it. 

He’s seen Jonas, devastated and withdrawn after breaking up with his first girlfriend at university. He’s seen William, cold and numb after Noora left. But neither of them had an Even. 

Even. He needs to talk to Even. All of this is for him, and he needs to tell him. Needs to let him know that he's his now. That there's nothing standing in their way. That they can be together, finally. 

That he’s done this for him. 

He comes to the same fork in the road where Even left him after the concert. This time, he chooses the go the same way as Even did then. He traces his footsteps as far as he could see them, turns on the street where Even turned. He ends up standing in front of rows of identical apartment buildings. Nothing to distinguishes them from each other, apart from a flag hanging over the railing of one of the balconies, plants taking over behind a window. 

He has no idea which building is Even's. 

If he even lives in this neighborhood. 

It's only now that Isak realises that he's left his phone at home. 

But he has to talk to Even. It can’t wait. 

There is no Even Bech Næsheim listed on the board showing the residents of the first building, or the second, or the third. By the eighth, he’s starting to think that Even probably doesn't live here after all. That he lives further down the street. In the next neighborhood, or the one after that. 

He finally finds him in house number eleven. By now, his toes are stiff from the cold seeping through the soles of his boots, and the tips of his ears sting – but he's found him, and in this moment, it's like nothing else matters. 

It's an old building, and there's no code or lock on the door, so he walks right in. Wants to run up the four flights of stairs, but refrains – doesn't want to be all sweaty and breathless when he sees Even again 

He hears the chime of the doorbell echo through the apartment when he presses the button. 

Steps that approach from inside. A shuffle that must be shoes being kicked out of the way. 

The lock being turned. 

The handle being pushed down, almost in slow motion. 

The door opening. 

He's expecting Even to be surprised. Of course he’ll be surprised, they haven’t talked for a few days. Isak's never been to his place before. 

So he’s expecting Even to be surprised – surprised, and happy. 

He's expecting him to laugh. To realise what Isak has done – for him. That he's made a sacrifice for him. Prioritized him. 

He's not expecting Even to frown. 

He's not expecting the first thing he says to be,

“What are you doing here?” 

It’s so off script that it makes Isak fumble, makes him lose his line, forces him to ad-lib. 

“I broke up with Julian.” 

“Okay?” Even still isn't smiling. He should be smiling. He should be grabbing Isak and kissing him, should be dragging him into the apartment, should be pulling at his clothes, trying to get them about off as quickly as possible. 

Instead, he’s looking somewhere past Isak, over his shoulder. His hand is gripping the door handle hard enough that his knuckles are turning white. 

“For you,” Isak clarifies, because maybe Even just isn't getting it. Maybe he just doesn't understand the magnitude of the moment. “So that I can be with you.” 

Even sighs, and his breathe wobbles. 

“It’s not about that.” He frowns again, and focuses his gaze even further behind Isak. Blinks again, furiously. “You lied to me.” 

“No?” Isak has all their conversations labelled and catalogued in his brain, has gone over them again and again, replayed them in his mind every night this week when he couldn't sleep. He's sure he never lied. “I just… didn't think to tell you.” 

Finally, Even looks him straight in the eyes. Isak wishes he hadn't. 

“You chose not to tell me. That's the same as lying.” 

Isak wants to argue with that, wants to say that no, there is a pretty clear common definition of lying, and choosing to withhold information is not the same thing, but for once, he realises that he should keep his mouth shut. 

Even pushes the door handle down. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

“Please go. And please don’t text again.” 

The door is shut before Isak manages to respond. He hears the lock turn, again. A door close, somewhere behind it. 

He slips under water. Currents pull him deeper and deeper, and he can't make his legs kick him to the surface. 

He stands motionless in Even’s stairwell until the automatic light turns off, and he is plunged into darkness. Only then can he convince his legs to move, to put one foot in front of the other. 

When he exits the building, darkness has ascended there as well. He walks without registering where he is going, his feet tracing the same streets he took to get to Even. When he reaches home he doesn't know how he ended up there. 

The windows of his apartment are black holes, swallowing all the light from the surrounding homes. In the darkness, the kitchens and living rooms shine like lighthouses, warning him not to get too close, unless he run aground. 

He should have listened. 

Julian hasn't taken a lot, and still, the apartment feels empty. His running shoes and work sneakers are gone from the shoe rack. His nightstand has been cleared of his book, his reading glasses, his charger. His underwear drawer is open, a gaping hole that used to be stuffed to the brink, impossible to close. 

Isak doesn't even turn on the lights. He sits in the darkness, feels it closing in on him from all sides. 

He's alone. 


	12. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late this week - sorry about that! I hope you didn't mind waiting too much <3 
> 
> My amazingly efficient beta is, of course, [SmutFika](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutFika/pseuds/SmutFika), and I'm [champagneleftie](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr as well.

It’s snowing. 

Under the yellow streetlights, cartoon snowflakes slowly make their way down towards the streets of Oslo, tucking the whole city in under a heavy feather duvet. For a few hours – until the plows come through, building dirt grey walls up on the sidewalks, until the cars awaken and turn the streets into rivers of slush – it’s like living in a cloud. 

It’s Christmas Eve. 

If Isak were to look out his living room window, peek into the lives of the people across the street, he would see his neighbors go through all the motions of picture perfect Christmases – visiting relatives, traditional dinners, gift exchanges. 

So he doesn’t look. 

Last year – and the year before that, and the one before that as well – they spent Christmas with Julian’s family – his parents, aunts, uncles, little cousins. It was loud and boisterous, filled with weird traditions and expectations, disappointing gifts and too many people in a too small space. Isak had hated it; had quarrelled with Julian in hushed voices behind the closed door of his childhood bedroom; had made up work commitments just to have an excuse to disappear. 

Now, he misses it. 

It’s Christmas Eve, and Isak sits alone in an almost pitch black apartment. Only a floor lamp, and the blue light from his laptop screen, challenge the darkness a little.

With the lights off, he can’t see just how empty the apartment is now. 

In the hallway, his few pairs of shoes are neatly lined up in the shoe rack. His coat hangs stiffly from a hanger. There are no dirty dishes on the kitchen counter. The tumble dryer has been emptied. The coffee table is bare. The blender is gone, as well as half of the towels and linens. Two of the bedroom closets contain only a few dust mites. 

Julian has moved out. 

He had come by on Tuesday with Iben. Had packed up the rest of his things – his clothes, the few things he still had from before they got together, the things they had agreed over the phone that he could take – and had gone before Isak got home from work. When he opened the mailbox, his key had been lying on top of the bills and junk mail. 

And now, Isak is on his own. 

For the first time in his life, he is living alone. No parents. No sharing a kitchen and bathroom with other students. No boyfriend. 

If he had thought about it beforehand, he would probably have assumed he’d like it. Would have thought that living alone would suit him. That he’d like coming home to a quiet, tidy apartment, would appreciate not having to consider anyone else. 

Instead, he’s lonely. 

It’s Christmas Eve, and apart from a phone call with his father – lasting one minute and 47 seconds – he hasn’t spoken to a single person all day. He’s ventured outside the apartment once, to go to his mother’s grave and light a candle. Standing in the sea of flickering lights, surrounded by others with the same errand, silently brushing snow of tombstones, struggling to make the flame take in the wind, he had felt less alone than he had since Even shut the door in his face. Shut the door to him. 

He’s considered calling. Has thought about switching phones, or hiding his number, and hoping Even will pick up. 

Thought about it, but hasn’t gone through with it. 

Because every time he does, Even reappears in front of him. 

His desperate grip on the door handle. The creases between his eyebrows. His full, perfect lips, drawn into a thin line. His Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. 

_ Please don’t text me again.  _

He won’t. 

But he just wishes he could talk to him. Wishes that Even would let him explain, that he could make him understand. That he could tell him – 

He’s not sure what he would tell him. 

That he didn’t tell him about Julian – because?

That he didn’t actually lie?

That neither of them had made any promises to each other?

If Isak told Even about Julian – what would he even tell him? That they were so young when they got together that he didn’t know what he wanted from a relationship? (But the thing is, he was so sure he did.) That he had never loved Julian, not even at the start? (But he thought what they had  _ was  _ love.) That he regrets – what, exactly? 

He doesn’t know. 

There’s an empty pizza carton in the recycling bin. One of several. Since Julian left, he’s mostly been eating frozen food, or takeaway. Or just sandwiches. When he comes home from work he just doesn’t have the energy to think of something to cook, even if he wants to. The one day he had felt like actually making something, he had realised that the fridge was almost empty and the vegetables had gone soft.

He had forgotten how much energy it takes to think of what to eat. 

He hadn’t realised that Julian did most of that. 

If he wanted Even to give him a chance, he should have ended things with Julian earlier. But he can’t pinpoint exactly when. He and Julian were fine until he met Even. There was no reason to break up with him before that. Yes, maybe Julian was right that he could be a little boring, that they wanted different things sometimes – but none of that was insurmountable. They worked well together, moved together through their lives like two parts of a piece of machinery – not cogs that hook into each other and need each other to propel the machine forward, but two separate parts that are both still necessary for its functionality. There might not have been the passion he felt with Even, the immediate desperation for more, more, more – but they worked. 

Would Julian come back if he called him now? If Isak told him he made a mistake, if he said he was willing to work on their relationship, if he could tell Julian exactly how he needed to change – would he return? 

A tiny part of Isak wants to try it out. Wants to beg, and grovel, and make promises. 

Wants to be the one who is chosen. 

A tiny part of him. A fraction, a cluster of cells in the corner of his brain. 

The rest of him just wants Even. 

The longing runs through his veins like electricity, pulses under his skin, makes him want to reach out, touch. Be held, be safe. 

But Even doesn’t want him. Won’t hold him while they sleep. Won’t trace the curve of his eyebrows, cheekbones, chin, tug on his hair when they kiss. 

He wonders what Even’s doing right now. If he’s with his family. If they’re exchanging gifts. Eating Christmas dinner. Maybe they’re watching tv, or taking a walk to let their food settle. Maybe he’s catching up with relatives, answering their questions about moving back to Oslo, trying to focus on the positive.

He wonders what he’s feeling. If he’s smiling. If his voice still wobbles. 

He wonders if Even’s thinking of him. 

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes. 

*

The office is empty when Isak returns the day after Boxing day. Everyone else is still on vacation, and most of them won’t be back until after New Year’s. 

Isak always works the week between Christmas and New Year’s. 

It started as a way to show ambition and loyalty, demonstrate to his bosses that he was willing to go the extra mile. That work was the most important thing in his life, that he wasn't like his colleagues, distracted by families and traditions. Then it became an escape, a way to get away from Julian's family and their probing questions. Heads to the side, sympathy for poor Isak with the demanding job. 

He knows William will be joining him, if not today then tomorrow, for the same reasons. 

They’re both better at work than outside of it. 

He remembers WIlliam from when they first met at university. William had been the one with all the cool parties, all the connections. The perfect grades and the secure future. And Isak knows that he was probably the only one to think like this – that the other students had their own problems, their own lives and social circles, that unlike in high school, there wasn’t just one cool group or even just one way to be cool – but that didn’t stop him from looking up to William. From wanting to be like him. Because like Jonas, William seemed to know how everything worked. How to get where he wanted to go.

And William knew that he had it made already. Knew he’d be successful – like his father. His grandfather. His brother. 

The life that Isak wanted was the life William had always had, had always expected. 

Isak had glommed onto him like a leach, desperate to suck him dry of every last drop of institutional knowledge, instinctual understanding. He had used the four years they studied together to emulate WIlliam as much as he possibly could. Become William – but better. WIlliam without the surname. 

William hasn’t changed much since university. 

He’s still the same, still the one who girls twist themselves into knots for – just with better suits and a fancier watch, and a car bought with his own money instead of his father’s.

(The girls haven’t changed at all. They still look the same as they did in university – including being the same age as they were back then.) 

Isak is reminded of what Eva told him.

Does William know about her and Noora? Did she tell him that she was quitting, or did he find out via the company wide email, like everyone else? 

What would he think if he knew?

Isak isn’t sure how William and Noora met. He doesn’t think anyone really knows. All of a sudden, in the middle of their first semester, William started to ditch them to instead hang out with her – loud, opinionated, always arguing. Seemed satisfied just to watch with a fascinated smile as she tried to convince him to be a better person. 

At some point she stopped convincing. 

William stopped being satisfied. 

In the beginning, Noora sometimes came out with them, but she didn’t keep it up for very long. Didn’t seem to find it very fun – would sit on a couch, or at a table, or lean against a wall – sober, while everyone else grew drunker around her. The look on her face increasingly annoyed as the night grew later and William became either moodier, or wilder. Isak stopped noticing the night ending with them fighting when that started to be the case every time they went out – Noora stalking off into the night or William disappearing and leaving her alone in the kitchen. 

After a while, Noora stopped coming out. Started staying in, at home – alone, as far as Isak could tell, but he never really asked. 

He never saw her hanging out with anyone else besides them and Chris’ ever-revolving cast of girlfriends. 

He thinks that’s when William started hooking up with other girls, but he can’t be certain. At first, they were unknowns. Girls who didn’t go to their university. Students in other programs. Languages. Literature. Medicine. Finance. 

It wasn’t until towards the end that he started to hook up with girls they knew. Sara, a few times. 

Maybe that’s when Noora found out. Or maybe, she always knew. 

Isak remembers William after Noora disappeared – because she did disappear. Without a trace. Left William to come home to empty closets and keys left on the kitchen counter. No note. No explanation. No warning at all. 

For a while, they had actually been worried about him. About his drinking. About his work. About his moods. 

He hasn’t had an actual girlfriend since. Just a series of blonds, with an ever growing age difference. 

Not that anyone ever questions it. He’s not alone in it. Not the only one who rated the incoming interns and associates. Isak knows that, knows that the female associates are generally hired on their looks as much as their abilities – they’re not going to make partner anyway, so why not have something nice to look at while they’re still around? No, William is just doing what everyone else does. 

He suddenly wonders what Noora would think of it. 

The thought comes to him like an echo from very far away. It’s like looking at an old picture of himself, in outdated clothes and an ugly haircut. It’s something he used to think, something he used to worry about. What would Jonas think of this? What would Noora think? (And even earlier – what would Sana think?) At one point, he must have decided that the opinion he cared most about was William’s. 

Not because he didn’t know what Jonas, or Noora, or Sana would think – but because it became too uncomfortable to even consider.

Because he knows. He knows exactly. They would be disgusted, all three of them. With the comments about the interns’ looks. With the discreet touches, that might be an accident but seldom are. 

With Isak. With the cheating. With the lying to Julian. 

He knows. And the thought makes him a little nauseous. 

He really doesn’t want to think about it. He hasn’t thought about it, hasn’t considered it in a long, long time. It helps that Jonas is far away, that he doesn’t have to deal with his judgement when he tells him stories about William and Chris. That Sana is so busy, that she’s been planning her wedding, that she’s also busy with work. That Vilde is so ingrained in the culture that she doesn’t really see it anymore. 

Just like him. 

Because it is what it is. He’s just one person, and he can’t change something that’s been the same way through generation after generation of partners and associates, interns and student workers. It just doesn’t work like that. If he wants to make partner it just doesn't work like that. 

*

Even and Noora lodged their appeal just before Christmas. 

Isak’s been staring at Even’s name for too long now. He can’t seem to scroll past it. Despite everything, it’s still loaded with expectations, with longing. With fingers tapping out texts without thinking, with feet moving on their own, with going from building to building to building to find him. With gut-wrenching disappointment. With a door closed in his face. 

He misses him. 

He can’t put his finger on what it is he’s missing – his voice, his smile, his kisses? 

Isak knows exactly why he’s missing Julian. He’s missing the comforts, the support. The food, the steady weight of him against his chest. The familiarity. But he doesn’t know what it is he’s missing about Even. 

It might be everything. 

Even’s voice echoes in his head as he reads. 

Isak can distinguish between Even’s different voices now. The charm he turns up in court and when talking to reporters,the almost imperceptibly lowered pitch when he loads it with innuendo. 

Now, it is warm with Even’s concern for his friends. The dry poetry of the arguments and citations glow with care. 

Even might be interested in getting to know everyone he meets, but this is beyond that. 

Isak remembers when he first got this case. Before everything – when he was still on a straight highway, pushing ahead without even the slightest hint of a bend or an obstacle in sight – unquestioning, convinced of his relationship, his life. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time – had seen that Adam and Mikael were just two up-and-coming famewhores, willing to whine in front of a judge for some extra sympathy and publicity. He had been confident that it was clear cut, and handed most of it over to Eva pretty much immediately. 

He had laughed at the unknown lawyer who was delusional enough to think that this was something he could actually win. 

Now, he sees that it’s not about that. It was never about that. 

Isak hasn’t actually read the description of the wedding in weeks. He never really looked that closely at the photos. Instead, he let Eva do the first analysis. He already had his picture of it all formed – extravagant, over-the-top, huge. Like celebrity weddings usually are. 

It seems to have been nothing like that. 

As he’s come to expect from Even, he’s added a bunch of extraneous detail to the description of it. Only a few weeks ago, it would have caused Isak to roll his eyes and sigh dramatically in annoyance, it would only have added to his list of Even’s incompetence. Now, while he can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, he also can’t stop the smile he feels tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

The wedding had been small. Intimate. Only Adam and Mikael’s closest families, and the chosen family who had always supported them. No shallow celebrity friends. On a public beach, yes, but corded off, and a place of great personal significance to them. 

Even Extra’s photos, taken with a long-range zoom lense, are radiating with love. Isak finds himself transfixed by them. The golden light of the sunset. The embraces between friends. Mikael’s head on Adam’s shoulder. The grooms with their parents. 

And then, there he is. Isak never noticed before. Never knew to look. 

Even. His hand on the back of a woman with short blond hair and large earrings. Laughing. A man that Isak now recognises as Sana’s brother making up their group. 

Even’s words ring in his head.  _ Adam and Mikael are my friends. This was something I could do for them. _

Would Isak’s friends do something like that for him? 

Would he do something like that for them? 

He’s never thought about it before.

He’s not sure he would. 

If he was sure he would lose, would he take on a case for a friend? For Vilde? For Sana? For Jonas? Probably not. He can barely suffer through an afternoon with Magnus for Vilde’s sake. Hasn’t had any contact at all with Jonas since they saw each other last. Hasn’t even really thought about them, except to feel sorry for himself that they’re not here for him, now when he needs them. 

He’s not sure when he was last there for any of them. 

But they’ve never really needed him like he needs them. That’s always been the problem. When Isak’s been floundering, trying to find steady ground underneath his feet, trying to figure out his way forward – everything’s just fallen into place naturally for them. For Vilde, who made new friends when she moved away for university, met Magnus young and just fits into her small, suburban life of modest successes. For Sana, who’s always had it easy in school, at university, at work. Who’s always had her family to support her. For Jonas, who came into university already confident of his abilities, of his opinions. Who’s never doubted his worth. 

But maybe they’ve thought the same about him. 

Maybe Vilde thought that he would know what to do when she called him after her mother fell even deeper into her depression. Maybe Sana needed his anger, too, after she was passed up for all those jobs, despite being more qualified that the men who were hired. 

Maybe Jonas wanted his enthusiasm and support when he told him about the baby. 

For years, Isak has been trying to be more like William. Now, he wishes he was more like Even. Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t be so alone right now. 

He still hasn’t told anyone about Julian. It might have gotten back to Sana or Jonas through Even, but neither of them has reached out. And he knows it’s been Christmas, knows that Sana’s been on her honeymoon, but it still makes his stomach feel bottomless.

On the other hand, he hasn’t called them either.

He’s never the one to call. 

He probably only has himself to blame. 


	13. Undefinable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people! <3
> 
> As you might have noticed, the posting schedule is a bit fucked at the moment - the next few weeks will be stupid busy for me, so unfortunately, it might continue to be a bit off. And that's also why I still haven't answered all your lovely comments! But I will, and I will try to get the next update out in approximately a week. I hope you can all forgive me! I really appreciate each and every one of you who reads this, and I hope you know that I don't take it for granted <3
> 
> As always, if you want to talk to me, you can find me on [tumblr](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com)!

The next couple of weeks pass in a fog. One day coils into the next, like an endless heavy chain. When Isak looks back he can’t determine where one day ends and the next begins. They all bleed together. 

He wakes up alone. Goes to work in an office that is still mostly empty, with most of his co-workers still on Christmas holidays with their families. He comes home to a silent apartment. On the weekends he sleeps too late, waking up only when the sun has already begun its descent. 

He tries to think as little as possible, but he isn’t very successful. 

He still hasn’t talked to anyone. He’s not even sure if anyone knows about the breakup yet. If it’s spread, from Even, via Noora, to Jonas. To Sana. 

New Year's Eve passes in much the same way as Christmas the week before. 

Then out of nowhere, Isak finds himself in the middle of January. 

The tram is once again full in the morning. There is a line to the coffee machine. His inbox starts filling up at an alarming rate. He has plenty of reasons to work late. 

It’s actually a comfort. The more he works, the less time he has to think. And he really prefers not thinking right now. 

Suddenly, it’s been a month. 

The apartment starts to feel less empty. The task of feeding himself is no longer insurmountable. His things are slowly filling the closets that used to be Julian’s. 

He’s going to be fine. He’s already fine.

At least, that’s what he tells himself, on the tram, at the coffee machine, at his desk, in front of the tv in the evening. But at three a.m., his thoughts are a tangle of work stress, longing and guilt. 

He’s still sleeping on his side of the bed. He and Julian never had a single mattress – they both always preferred to have their own: Julian’s firm, Isak’s soft. A clear line separating them, even in their sleep. Now, it only makes it obvious that theirs was a bed made for two. 

And it’s not Julian who he wishes was sleeping on the other side. 

A month, and Isak hasn’t heard from Even at all. He hasn’t tried to contact him either. 

He respects Even too much for that. 

But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t miss him.

It’s absurd, really. That he can still feel Even’s skin beneath his fingers – every bump, every mole. That he remembers the smell of his hair. That currents of electricity still run through his arms, to the tips of his fingers, when he imagines touching him. 

It’s absurd, because he can barely picture Julian. He can zoom in on details – the curl at the side of his neck when his hair grew to long. The scar in his eyebrow. His ragged cuticles.. But he can’t make out his face. Can’t describe his body, even to himself. Doesn’t remember how he smelled. 

It should be the other way around. It should be Julian that he's missing. It should be the back of Julian’s head that he thinks he spots, suddenly, on the tram one evening. It should be Julian who pops into his head every time his phone buzzes. 

It should be, but it's not. 

*

Most of their kitchenware was Julian’s. The blender. The sous vide circulator. The good knives. The newer non-stick pan that still worked as advertised. 

Isak is left with dented Ikea pots and a pan that makes him worry about the amount of carcinogens he's ingesting. 

The busted non-stick pan is the reason that he finds himself standing in front of a shelf of pans on Saturday – all different sizes and materials – trying to determine what it actually is that he’s looking for. 

Does he want teflon? Ceramic? Cast iron? 

He’s not even a hundred percent sure if he has an induction hob or not. 

It’s ridiculous. He’s not going to become some kind of master chef just because he’s not with Julian anymore. He still barely cooks. Nothing’s really changed, except that it seems like he  _ should  _ have a high quality pan, and maybe a set of sharp knives, as well. If nothing else, he has a knife rack that looks incredibly stupid when empty. 

It’s when he turns around to, finally, give up and go find someone who can assist him, that he sees them. 

Noora, carrying a wire basket in the crook of her arm, is laughing at Eva, who is making a wooden monkey dance for them. 

Of course they had to put the kitchenware in the innermost corner of the store. There is no way for Isak to leave without going right past them. 

He considers turning around and spending some more time getting intimately acquainted with the difference between the various kinds of non-stick pans, but before he can do so, Noora looks up. 

Unlike when he laid eyes on Noora upon exiting the courthouse elevator, only to have her eyes roam on from his and on to William, neither of them breaks away this time. 

Isak could never tell what Noora was thinking. She always seemed so calm and collected. So sure of herself. Mature. 

He can’t tell now either. The smile she sends him from across the store doesn’t seem to meet her eyes – but that could just be the distance. 

He should move. Should get himself together. Should snap on his professional mask, should go over to them, should ask about their Christmases, should ask about Eva’s new job. 

He can’t. 

He wonders how much she knows. If she knows anything. If Even’s told her anything. 

Last time, it was Isak who approached Noora when she was frozen stiff by the appearance of William. This time, it’s Noora who approaches him. Who puts a hand on Eva’s arm, says something Isak can’t hear, but that makes Eva look over. Makes her entire face light up. 

Like she’s happy to see him. 

He’s probably imagining it, but he thinks the one-armed hug Noora gives him in hello is longer than it was last time. Over her shoulder, he can see that her basket is filled with sets of two: linens, towels, mugs. 

“Isak, how are you?” she asks, and it feels genuine, like she actually wants to know. 

His smile is tight, close-mouthed. 

“Good. I’m good.” 

Eva hugs him with both arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and it’s really too much, too intimate for Isak to be comfortable, but he can’t help but melt into it a little. Make a momentary exception in his vast personal space. 

He pushes down the inkling of a reason to why. To what the last month of being on his own has done to him. 

There’s a moment of awkward silence after that. Like none of them know just where to go from there. 

Just as Isak starts to say his, “Well, I should really get going,” Noora hurriedly interjects over him: 

“Uhm, Eva has to go, but do you want to get a coffee or something?” 

He can't help but startle at the suggestion. Even when they were friends, Isak doesn't think he ever got coffee alone with Noora – without Jonas, or Julian, or William. They just never had that kind of friendship.

But then again, he doesn't really have that kind of friendship with anyone right now. 

They end up at the chain next door. The coffee is a little tepid, but the silence is less awkward than it could have been. Noora stirs sugar into her tea. The swooshing of the spoon and the scent of the blend calms Isak down a little. 

It’s actually kind of nice, sitting with a person who's known him for so long, even if they haven't really talked in years – if ever. Someone who's seen him at his most stressed. Who knew him before he learnt to keep his worries to himself. 

It's Noora who breaks the silence. 

“I heard about you and Even.” She takes a sip of her tea. “And about you and Julian.” 

Isak drinks a little of his coffee, trying to buy himself some more time so that he can figure out how to respond to that. 

What has Noora heard? What does she think? 

“I heard about you and Eva,” he says instead, and then, to make it sound a little less confrontational: “Congratulations.”

It's the wrong thing to say, probably, should be saved for engagements and weddings and stuff, but Noora lights up at it. 

“Thank you,” she smiles. “Yeah. It feels really good actually. She's amazing.” She bites her lip, and it almost looks like she's trying to contain her smile, like she is so happy that she doesn’t trust herself to keep her self-control intact. “Thank you for introducing us.” 

Isak doesn't really consider what he did an actual introduction. 

But it's nice to see this side of Noora. It's not how he usually pictures her. 

“And how are you?” 

He tries to shrug, but can feel how forced it looks. 

“Good.” 

At that, Noora looks up, catches his eye again and refuses to let go. 

He tries to keep his gaze steady, tries to convince her that he is fine, but he can feel himself blinking, can tell that he’ll have to avert it any moment. 

Noora takes another sip of her tea. 

“Have you talked to Even?” 

At the mention of his name, Isak can feel a surge of something undefinable in his chest, like a tsunami pulling back only to return in full force, flooding every crevice of his body with  _ Even Even Even _ . 

Outwardly, all he can do is shake his head. 

“He doesn't want to talk to me.” 

Noora nods, slowly, pensively, like she understands Even. Agrees with him. And for all that Isak respects Even’s decision – has decided that he respects Even's decision – he can't help but be annoyed at it, at how that little nod seems to contain so much judgment.

Confirms the thought that’s started to appear more and more frequently, as he scrolls the short chain of text messages they exchanged, before everything: that he wasn’t worthy of Even, just as he isn’t worthy of Jonas, Sana, Vilde. Noora. 

But even if he thinks it himself, it's completely different to hear it from someone else, to see it in someone else’s face. 

“But I broke up with Julian for him!” he protests. 

To hear it said out loud again is jarring. Since he said it to Even, it's a phrase that's existed only in his head, where it's played on repeat, in different tones. Angry. Disbelieving. Self-pitying. Over and over. 

It doesn't sound as convincing now. 

Noora scrunches up her nose, and for a moment she looks exactly like she used to. It’s the same face she used to have whenever Jonas would become too overconfident in his abilities and delivered answers that she knew were incorrect. 

“Isak, how well do you actually now Even?”

Sometimes, Noora reminds Isak very much of Sana. 

“Do you know why he moved back to Oslo?” 

Isak has to admit that he doesn't. Noora sighs and stirs her tea. 

“He… He got divorced about a year ago. They – they were a little like you and Julian. I think they met when they were 15 or so.”

In all the time that Isak has spent thinking about Even, he’s never considered the possibility that he might have been married. The tsunami in his chest pulls back again. This time, it only leaves a void. A void, and a dripping sewer pipe of jealousy. 

Someone else's hands on Even. Even’s smile on someone else.

He doesn't know if he wants to know, but he asks anyway. 

“What happened?” 

“She met someone else.” 

She peers at him over the rim of her mug. 

“When he met you… He hadn't really been himself since the divorce. But you… after he met you he actually seemed happy again. Enthusiastic. They way he took on Adam and Mikael’s case – I haven't seen him like that in a long time.” She takes another sip. “He didn't tell me that it was you. Just that he’d met someone.”

Her voice makes it clear even to Isak that she'd have told Even everything, if she'd have known it was him. 

From the sewer pipe in his chest, the guilt drips, filling him, vein by vein, artery by artery. Cell after cell after cell. 

“But it’s really Even who you should ask about this.”

He feels even more pitiful when he repeats what has become a mantra over the last few weeks:

“He doesn't want to talk to me.” 

Noora tilts her head to the side, radiating sympathy, and Isak wants to hate her, for her new, perfect relationship, her happiness, her selfassurdeness, but most of all, he wishes she would put an arm around him and tell him everything is going to be okay. 

“Isak…” she says instead. ”Have you talked to  _ anyone  _ about this?”

He’s not sure what she means about this – Even, Julian, the cheating, the loneliness – but the answer is no to all of it, anyway. 

“What about Jonas?” 

He can only shake his head. 

“You should. He misses you, I think.”

*

Noora takes pity on him after that, and they spend some time talking about more neutral subjects – old acquaintances, where Noora is living now, how she feels being back. Isak asks about her Christmas, and Noora, thankfully, doesn’t ask about his. When they hug goodbye it feels almost like it did when they were still actually friends. 

The apartment feels a little less empty when Isak gets home. He walks through the rooms, turning on the lights, until there’s not a single dark corner left. When he passes through the kitchen, he turns on the radio, and lets himself be drawn into the hosts’ steady voices.

It feels like his heartrate has slowed down a bit. It’s been racing forward in overdrive for weeks – months – but talking to Noora made it calm down somewhat. Not entirely, but a little. Isak thinks that it was probably the distraction – to have an hour away from it all, away from his thoughts, to have someone else’s voice fill his head – calm and slow, comforting with its mundane topics of conversation. 

He wishes he could stay in the mundane. 

He wishes he could just focus on that, on the ease, on the superficial, on Noora’s laughter when she told him about meeting Eva’s friends for the first time. But when he finally sits down on the couch, in the same spot, the same position that he’s spent most of his evenings over the last month, he can’t stop the darkness and the silence from intruding, from drowning out the glow of the lamps and the voices on the radio. 

After they said goodbye, Noora went home to Eva.

Isak went home to nothing. 

Inside his chest is a tangle of emotions. Loneliness. The lingering warmth from talking to Noora. The ever-present longing for Even. 

The constantly dripping guilt.

It taints everything. 

The guilt over not telling Even about Julian, over not missing Julian now, taints every thought he has of Even, every time he sees his eyes, the back of his neck, his hands in his mind, every time he thinks he feels the phantom of his touch. 

The warmth left by Noora is tainted by the guilt he feels towards Jonas, and Vilde, and Sana. 

With everything that happened, he even forgot Jonas’ birthday. 

He tries to focus on Noora, on the feeling of her hugging him goodbye – hugging him properly, hugging him like she wanted to. Tries to remember other times he’s felt like this, lately: talking to Even after the concert. Texting him, that week. 

Tries to ignore how his thoughts crowd at him.

It doesn’t work. 

The warmth is fleeting, the guilt and loneliness are constant. 

Now that he thinks about it, he can’t actually remember a time when it wasn’t like that. Can’t remember if he’s ever just felt content. Calm. Happy. 

There’s just always been something more waiting for him just around the corner. 

Better grades. A better job. More money. A nicer apartment. 

A more exciting relationship. Better friends. 

Isak feels like he’s been running, for years, towards a goal that keeps moving further and further away.

The realisation feels like pulling the plug of a bathtub and watching the water pour out. It’s slow at first, just an instinct that he can’t really put words to. Then it drains him in a swoosh, all at once, and leaves him empty and dry. 

He’s exhausted, and for what? 

He’s not even sure what the goal is, anymore. To make partner? And then what? To make more money? Be more well-known? 

To do the same thing every day – go to work in the dark, come home in the dark, sit in an empty apartment with more work? 

Hope that his friends take pity on him and stay in touch? 

Hope that one day, Even forgives him?

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like enough. But he isn’t sure what’s missing. 

It was always this. He always  _ knew _ . Unlike Julian, unlike Jonas, unlike Vilde – Isak always knew what he wanted. 

And if not this, then what? What is it that he wants? 

*

Even.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he wants Even. 

*

Isak has been staring at his phone for close to an hour, now. First on the couch, then as he paced around the apartment, and now at the kitchen table. 

Staring back at him from the screen is Jonas’ contact photo. 

It’s an old picture, from when they had just graduated. Jonas looks, at the same time, much younger, and exactly as he does now. Confident. Settled. Like he knows, and has always known, what is at his core. 

Isak hopes that maybe Jonas can tell him what’s at his core, too. 

If he’ll talk to him at all. 

He’s checked the number, with Noora and online. It’s still the same one.

He’s practiced what to say. How he’ll start by apologising for not getting in touch on Jonas’ birthday. He’ll ask about Isabell, and the baby. How she’s feeling. About their Christmas. Then he’ll tell him about Julian, and Even. 

That is, if he can ever work up the courage to press the call button. 

Logically, he knows Jonas won’t be angry with him. In all their years as friends, he’s never seen Jonas angry at anyone. At injustices, at structures, but never at a person. So Isak really has no reason to be afraid of that. 

But he might be disappointed. He might be disappointed enough to finally realise that Isak is not someone he wants to be friends with. That he isn’t worth the effort. 

Is it better to keep Jonas at a distance and still have him as a friend, or to open up and risk losing him? 

Isak breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. Slowly, meticulously. 

His heart thuds against his chest. 

He presses the call button. 

One signal, and then a second one.

He should just hang up now. Jonas doesn’t want to talk to him. He’s probably busy, Isak’s probably calling just as he and Isabell are doing something important, having dinner, deep conversation, gazing lovingly at each other. 

A third signal. 

Nope. He’s not doing this. He’s hanging up now, he’s – 

“Isak!” 

Jonas sounds breathless.

“I almost thought I’d missed you, my phone was in the other room and I almost didn’t hear it!” 

Through his heavy breaths, Isak can hear the excitement in Jonas’ voice. 

“How are you?!”

Isak tries to remember his script. Tries to recall how he thought Jonas would answer, how he imagined his own response. His mind is blank. 

“I– I’m sorry about your birthday,” he stutters out, and although he knows that was in there, he’s pretty sure he meant to word it better. Or start with a greeting, at least. 

“My birthday?” Jonas sounds as confused as Isak feels, and he can picture his eyebrows knotting together. “Oh– don’t worry about that, I know how busy you always are just before Christmas, I don’t care. It’s great to talk to you now, though.” He really does sound like he means it. 

There’s a little pause, and when Jonas says,

“How was your Christmas?”, Isak can hear the concern that he’s trying to keep out of his voice. Like he just realised what a aberration it is, getting a phone call from Isak like this, out of nowhere.  

This is it. 

Isak takes another deep breath. 

“Julian and I broke up.”

“Oh.” Jonas sounds neutral, and Isak can’t tell if he already knew or not. “I’m sorry.” There’s a tiny pause, and Isak thinks that maybe Jonas is waiting for him to continue – but he doesn’t know how. “Do you want to tell me why?”

“I– I met someone else.” He has to say it, has to say his name out loud, it’s all or nothing. “It’s Even.”

On the other end, Jonas makes a little noise. Isak can’t interpret it, can’t determine if it’s positive or negative. Can’t tell what Jonas is thinking. 

“You said you thought I’d like him,” he jokes lamely, and that finally makes Jonas laugh, a short  _ hah!  _ that finally loosens the knot in Isak’s stomach somewhat. 

“I did say that.” Isak can almost hear him smirk. “So you and Even?” 

The knot turns to lead. 

“No – not… not me and Even.” 

Once he starts telling Jonas, he can’t stop. He tells him everything. The cheating – not just with Even, but the others as well. How he doesn’t know if he ever loved Julian. That he knows he never felt anything like what he feels for Even. 

About the breakup. About Even’s door, closed in his face. 

That he doesn’t know what to do, now. 

Jonas doesn’t say anything. Just listens. Hums a little in the appropriate places. It is only when Isak is done, when he doesn’t have a single word left in him, that he gives his verdict. 

“You fucked up.”

There’s no judgement in his voice. It’s a statement of fact. Isak can only agree. 

“I fucked up.”

  



	14. Making An Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearest readers! Thank you for all your sweet comments, and your patience - I'm so lucky that you're all so nice <3
> 
> Last week was the busiest week I've had all semester, but this week should be better, so hopefully we can return to regularly scheduled updates now :) 
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com)

Isak tells Jonas everything. Once he starts, he can't seem to stop. He tells him about Strasbourg, about meeting Even for the first time. About the instant attraction, the immediate fascination. How easy it had been to forget everything, ignore everything, the first time they met. He tells him about how Even got under his skin, how once he started he couldn't stop thinking about him. How just being in Even's presence made him feel like he was spinning out of control. He tells him that he's never felt like this before, about anyone. 

Isak tells Jonas everything he wishes he could tell Even. 

Jonas just listens. While the words pour out of Isak, Jonas is silent on the other end of the line, interjecting only with the occasional  _ hm _ or  _ oh _ . He lets Isak exhaust himself, lets him get everything out, everything that he's been carrying around for the past few weeks, months, years. And when Isak is done, when there's not a, single word left in him, not one thought that hasn't been uttered, he hears Jonas sigh, all the way from Bergen. Hears him get up, shuffle around and close a door. Isak wonders where he's sitting – in the study, or his and Isabell’s bedroom. Either way, knowing that they're alone – that no one else can overhear them – makes him realize the weight of their conversation. The weight that Jonas is attributing to it. And it both moves him and scares him that his friend is taking this development in his life so seriously. It almost makes him relieved that they're doing this over the phone. That Jonas is 500 kilometers away. That he doesn't have to face him. 

It’s not Jonas’ fault, but when he finally responds, Isak can’t help but feel small – like he’s one of Jonas’ students, trying to explain why he hasn’t done an assignment on time, or trying to excuse an absence too many.  _ You fucked up.  _ He did. He knows he did. He should have told Even about Julian earlier – or told Julian about Even. Should never have let it go so far with Even before breaking up with Julian. But he did, and now Even won’t talk to him. 

Which is probably fair. 

Jonas at least thinks so. 

“What do I do know?” Isak asks, and in the echo on the phone line he can hear how young he sounds – petulant, almost defiant. Like a needy teenager. Like the needy teenager that he never wanted to be. He never wanted to rely on anyone, always wanted to be man enough to deal with his problems, his issues, on his own. 

And now, here he is. Relying on Jonas’ advice, and his friendship. 

“What do you want now?”

“I want Even.” He can’t help but cringe at his own words. He sounds like a child. 

In Bergen, Jonas sighs. 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea right now?” he asks, and Isak can tell that he, on his part, does not. “I think… I think it might be too late for you and Even.” 

His words make Isak’s heart clench in his chest, and drop to his stomach like a rock. He can’t get any words out. Too late. No, it can’t be. He’s just waiting for Even to come around, to forgive him. 

After a while, Jonas takes his silence as a sign to continue. 

He tells Isak about Sonja. 

The blonde from Adam and Mikael’s wedding pictures appears in Isak's mind. 

He tells him about their epic love story, as Even called it. How they had met when they were just teenagers. How they had married young – shockingly young, according to everyone around them, before any of their friends had even started thinking about settling down. 

Jonas tells Isak how Even worshipped Sonja. How it was obvious, even to Jonas who wasn’t especially close to either of them, that he would do anything for her, anything to make her happy. It was in the way he talked about her, the way he smiled around her. The way he told their story at parties. 

It was in the way he tried to convince her to stay. In how he offered to change, to move, to switch careers for her. 

Jonas tells Isak about how crushed Even had been after Sonja left. How for the first few months, they barely heard from him. And when they did see him – barely recognised him with how silent he had come. How withdrawn. 

He tells him how Even’s move back to Oslo was a chance to start over. To be close to his friends again. To get away from being confronted with his memories – and his failure – on every street corner. To remove the risk of running into Sonja and her new boyfriend. 

“Even’s a romantic,” Jonas tells Isak. “He always talked about love at first sight, how he and Sonja were made for each other, how there was no one else in the world for him. So when we heard that he had met someone new – it was like a miracle. To him, I think it felt like a miracle. And then…” 

He trails off into silence, but Isak’s brain latches on without much prompting.  _ And then, it turned out you had a boyfriend. And then, it turned out that what you had wasn’t the beginning of an epic romance, but just a sordid, sticky, common affair.  _ Isak’s brain is pounding against the inside of his temples. He feels like he might explode. 

“And think about it.” Jonas’ voice cuts through the overwhelming noise of Isak’s mind. “If you and Even got together now, isn’t there a risk that you would just end up treating him the same way you treated Julian?” 

*

They move on to other, safer topics after that. Jonas tells him about how Isabell’s feeling. How the baby is coming along, growing. They’re thinking of names, but so far, it’s a secret – they don’t want to invite any opinions, especially not from Isabell’s parents. Better just to pick a name and tell them after it’s already settled, when they can’t do anything about it. And Jonas tells him, in a lower voice, like he’s confessing a secret, that he's scared. That he wishes they were in Oslo right now, close to his family, and his friends, because even if Isabell’s parents are here, and they have a lot of friends in common here – people they see at parties, or have over for dinner sometimes – it's not the same. 

“I know you're not a big fan of babies,” he says, and if the conversation wasn't so serious, if it wasn't obvious that Jonas was truly worried, Isak would scoff at the understatement. “I know you're not a big fan of babies, but I still wish you were closer, because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, and it'd be nice to have someone else here who doesn't know either.”

They’ve never really talked like this before. Not while sober. And despite the pounding in Isak’s head, despite the fact that his heart feels like a dead weight in his stomach, it makes a warmth spread through Isak’s veins, right to the tips of his fingers, down his back. It feels like relief. 

“I’ll still be here for you,” he hears himself say, and he can hear how confident he sounds. He doesn’t feel it. Even as he says it, he’s afraid it’s a lie. “You can call me. Or text.” He has to draw a deep breath at that. He feels like he’s skating too close to an edge, like he is being too vulnerable, now. Like Jonas might, at any second, raise his voice again and tell him that he is being too much. Demanding too much. That Isak is not actually the friend he wants near when all this happens. He’s relieved that he’s sitting in the dark, now – he’s doesn’t think he could have said this much in the light of day.

But Jonas doesn’t do anything like that. 

Instead, Isak can hear him draw a deep breath of his own. When he speaks again, his voice is low, his speech slow and careful.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

The warmth spreads a little bit further through Isak’s veins. 

*

When they hang up, the warmth is almost overshadowing Isak’s headache, and his heavy heart. Almost, but not quite. 

Jonas’ words still echo through his mind. 

_ Don’t you think you would end up treating Even like you’ve treated Julian?  _

He wants to swear that he wouldn’t. His mind screams that he wouldn’t – every time his mind pounds on his temples, it’s in protest. It’s different with Even,  _ he’s  _ different with Even. If he was with Even, he wants to shout, he would never let him go. He would never let Even doubt what Isak was feeling – would never give him reason to doubt it. He would never even look at anyone else, ever again. 

But at one point, he never thought he would ever look at anyone besides Julian ever again either. 

At one point, Julian didn’t doubt Isak’s feelings for him, either. At one point, he told Julian he loved him, often and freely. He showed him that he loved him. At one point, he was proud to show others that Julian was his. 

And then suddenly, he wasn’t, and he hasn’t really thought about the fact that it changed. Until now. Hasn’t thought about how easy it was for him to forget about Julian. 

Out of sight, out of mind. 

What’s to say that the same thing wouldn’t happen with Even? 

What’s to say that if they were together, if he knew that Even was his, if he knew that Even loved him – he wouldn’t grow bored of him, as well? 

*

Work is dragging. Isak is supposed to be preparing for the appeal hearing, but he just can't bring himself to do it. Every time he reads through Even and Noora’s arguments, he hears Even's voice. Sees him in front of the court, delivering them. They're more or less the same arguments as before – worded slightly differently, but the meaning is the same. Finding the holes in the argumentation should be easy. After all, he's done it before. 

But it's not. 

Instead, he finds himself nodding along, agreeing with them. What, really, is the publication value of these pictures? Why does the public need to know what music was played as part of the ceremony, what the grooms wore, that Adam’s mother cried? What does that contribute to a public debate? 

What is he even doing? 

It was so black and white to Isak when he was studying. The media was the fourth estate, freedom of the press was the backbone of a democratic society. Isak had pictured himself defending whistleblowers and journalists revealing political corruption. Instead, his biggest clients are the tabloids. 

He can’t remember the last time he got a case in front of him that really caught his interest. That made him sit up straighter, forced him to challenge himself, his ideas, his preconceptions. Whatever satisfaction he’s gotten through this job in the last few years has come from the recognition he’s gotten because of his victories. The attention. The congratulations. The articles, first in industry publications, then in the mainstream press. But the cases… no. Not anymore. 

From outside his office, he hears Chris’ voice, and then, the new intern’s giggle. It’s with a deep sigh that he gets up and closes his door. 

*

Isak is drinking a lot of coffee these days. The insomnia he’s been suffering from since the break-up, in combination with being bored at work, has made it necessary. 

It’s when he’s getting his fourth cup for the day that he runs into Vilde. When she sees him she flings her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly, and Isak thanks all lucky stars that there’s no one else there to see them. 

They don’t usually hug at work. 

Vilde tilts her head to the side, puts a hand on Isak’s arm. 

“How are you?” she asks, and her voice is serious and filled with concern. 

Isak can only nod and try to look unaffected. It’s difficult enough to keep this out of work as it is. 

“I’m okay,” he answers, and from Vilde’s raised eyebrows he can tell that she thinks he’s lying. 

He has to cough a little to get rid of the sudden hitch in his throat. 

“It’s getting better,” he amends, and even though that also feels like a lie, Vilde seems to accept it. 

That it’s getting better implies that he knows where he wants to end up. That he’ll recognize good when he gets there. Right now, he’s not sure he would. All he can hope is that eventually, he’ll be able to sleep. Eventually, he’ll figure out what he wants his life to look like.

“How are you?” he asks instead. Because it’s Vilde, and for Vilde, he’s always tried to make an effort. 

Just like he should have been making an effort for all of his friends.

Vilde smiles, and tells him about their Christmas, how Aksel was scared of Santa and Ella got an Elsa dress. And even if he doesn’t actually care, Isak tries to focus, tries to commit what she’s telling him to memory instead of zoning out whenever something reminds him of Even. 

Tries to make an effort. 

“Aksel’s first birthday is coming up,” Vilde is saying now. “We’re having a party for him, maybe you want to come?”

Isak's first instinct is to refuse. To come up with an excuse – any excuse. A first birthday party. With Vilde, and Magnus. He hasn't read Dante, but that sounds like one of the circles of hell. 

Then he realizes what he's thinking, and his stomach contracts in shame. 

Yes, Jonas was right in saying that he isn’t that fond of kids. Yes, Magnus is annoying. He’ll probably always find him annoying – he’s too much, to effusive, to energetic. But he tries. He’s always tried – tried to include Isak, tried to find a common ground with him. Tried to be his friend. 

Isak has done the opposite of that. 

“Oh, but Julian is coming,” Vilde continues, frowning a little. “I don’t know if you…” 

Julian. 

In all the time Isak hasn’t talked to Even, he hasn’t talked to Julian, either. He hasn’t even really thought about it. About him. 

“How… how is he? Have you talked to him?” 

Vilde tilts her head again, scrutinizes him, as if she’s trying to determine exactly what he can handle hearing. 

“He’s… he’s better,” she says, at last. “I think. I haven’t seen him, but Magnus talked to him. I think he went home to his parents over Christmas and New Year’s?” She licks her lips, like she’s thinking about what to say. “I think… Magnus said he was really sad. But I don’t think Julian’s said much to him either.”

Isak doesn’t know what to say to that, so he only nods in response. He’s been so occupied with Even that he hasn’t even really thought about what Julian might be feeling. How he’s coping. If he had thought about it, he would have assumed that he was hurt, but. He hasn’t really considered it. 

“Do you think… Should I talk to him, maybe? See how he is?” 

Vilde frowns again. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea? He’s still pretty hurt I think. Maybe you should just leave him alone for a bit? Give him some space.” 

*

_ Give him some space. _

Isak lays in bed, staring out into the darkness of his bedroom. The world is silent. The only sound is the rustling of his linens as he tosses and turns, trying to get his mind to settle down. 

The idea that Julian might want need space – want space – still feels foreign. 

It was always the other way around. Isak was always the one who wanted more time to himself, and less time for  _ them.  _ Who wanted to spend weekends alone, instead of with their friends – especially Julian’s friends. Who would let an argument just… blow over. Who didn’t feel the need to talk things through. 

Now, he feels a sudden urge to explain himself. To justify his actions. Defend himself. Make Julian understand. 

He never used to feel the need to do that. But then again, he never used to think they way he was living was all that bad, either. 

Fuck. 

There were a lot of things he never thought about, when they were together. He just… went with it. Let himself settle into a comfortable humdrum existence, bookended only by anniversaries, birthdays, vacations. A life designed to require as little effort as possible. 

Isak never realised that he should have wanted to make an effort.

Until now. Fuck. 

If Even would forgive him, he would be better. The conviction pulses under his skin like electricity. For Even, he wants to be better. He wants to make an effort for him. If Even would ask him to change, Isak would change. 

He would do anything to have Even. 

If Even would only tell him what to do. 

But it’s been over a month. They’re closing in on February. 

Even might never forgive him. 

He has to start realising that Even might never forgive him. 

Jonas thinks it’s too late for them. Jonas thinks he fucked up. And he  _ did  _ fuck up, he knows he did, but was it really that bad? Was it really bad enough that it won’t ever be him and Even? 

When he closes his eyes, he sees the white knuckles of Even’s hand grip the door handle. Hears his breath wobble. 

What’s to say that he wouldn’t treat Even in the same way he treated Julian? What’s to say that their life wouldn’t turn into humdrum too? Maybe not right away, but with time? 

Even might never forgive him. 

Even might never forgive him. 

If Even never forgives him – then what? Just… this? If his life stays just like this – is he okay with that? 

What kind of life is he even living? He’s not getting the satisfaction he wants from his job. He’s stuck in a perpetual cycle of not seeing his friends enough, of not having the energy to make the effort, of feeling guilty over not doing enough for them. 

He’s lonely. 

Without Julian in his life, he finally realises how lonely he is. 

Sure, he’s talked to Noora, and Vilde. But they were the ones who talked to  _ him _ , and he still had to make an effort, still had to focus to actually take an interest in what they were saying, as soon as they drifted away from talking about him, about his problems. And sure, he called Jonas, told him he’d be there for him – and he almost regretted it, once they’d hung up. Regretted making that kind of promise, regretted committing to something when he’s pretty sure he’ll fail. Fail Jonas. Again. 

It’s a miracle that his friends haven’t abandoned him. 

When Even talked about his friends, his face lit up. When he looked at them, his expression softened. Isak remembers the intensity in his eyes when he listened to them, like the volume of the rest of the world had momentarily been turned down. Like all of his focus was on them.

It seemed so easy. So natural. It never seemed like an effort for Even, putting his friends before himself. Before his career, before his comfort. 

Isak has never put anyone before himself. Not his friends, not Julian. 

And thinking of others has always been an effort. 

Of course Even won’t forgive him. And even if he did – or if Isak hadn’t fucked up in the first place – he would soon realise that Isak is not for him. That he isn’t good enough. That he can’t live up to his standards, can’t be the person that Even deserves. 

If he can’t even be that person for himself – if he can’t even recognize his own loneliness and do something about it – how could he be that person for Even? 

If he can’t even make himself happy, how could he make Even happy? 

He just wants to be happy. Even if Even never forgives him, even if they never get together, even if he never sees him again in his life – he just wants to be happy. 

It’s the last thing that runs through Isak’s mind before he finally manages to fall asleep. 

He just wants to be happy. 

Somehow, he’s going to try to be happy. 


	15. Kyrie Eleison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! As always, I'm amazed and seriously humbled by all your support and love - thank you! You're all the sweetest <3
> 
> Also, did you know Gabrielle has a song called Kyrie? That's half the reason for the chapter title. The other half is my general pretentiousness.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon in April. 

On Sana and Yousef’s balcony, sheltered and facing south, it’s already warm enough to forgo a jacket. Isak closes his eyes and leans his head back. The brick wall is rough against his scalp. He tilts his face towards the sun, chasing the its rays. Warmth spreads through his entire body, from his cheeks, down his neck, over his shoulders and his chest. Somewhere along his arms it meets the warmth of the cup of tea he’s holding between his hands. 

Somewhere, a bird sings, joining the low sounds of a radio through one of the many open windows. 

He wouldn’t mind staying here for a while. 

On an uncomfortable chair, dragged out from a kitchen that still consists mostly of moving boxes. 

The air smells of spring – of ice melting, of the earth airing out. The insides of Isak’s eyelids glow red from the sun. Against his tongue, the tea is soft and sweet with milk and honey. 

The door to the balcony whines a little when Sana pushes it open. The round tin jar in her hand rattles. 

“I knew Yousef had cookies somewhere!” She flops down on the chair next to Isak with a sigh and a groan, stretching her feet out in front of her. With a fingernail underneath the rim she peels the lid of the jar and takes a sesame seed cookie, before holding it out to Isak. “He thought he could hide them from me by putting them on the top shelf, but I’m onto him.” 

The cookie is somehow both crunchy and chewy, the seeds glossy with honey. It coats the insides of Isak’s mouth with flavor as he rolls each piece around with his tongue, savoring it. 

Sana moans as she bites down into her own cookie. 

“Oh this is too good. He has to stop baking, he knows I can’t be trusted around this stuff right now.” 

Isak, not wanting to turn away from the sun just yet, peers at her through half-closed eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sana shrug. 

“Better. Still pretty tired, but that should pass soon. And not so nauseous anymore.” 

She closes her eyes to the sun as well. Leans back. Sips her tea. 

Children’s voices carry on the wind from the daycare across the street, and Isak sees Sana’s cheek dimple. 

“What about you?” 

What about him? 

Isak closes his eyes again at the question. Focuses on the red sun through his eyelashes, the warmth of the tea, the sweet honey coating the roof of his mouth. 

What about him? 

Two months ago he would have shrugged the question off. Answered as noncommittally as possible. Said something about work, maybe. 

But he's been working on that. Or rather,  _ they've _ been working on that. His therapist keeps pushing him to open up more. To start with non-threatening situations. With good friends. 

There's a sesame seed stuck in one of his molars. He pokes at it with his tongue. 

“Better,” he answers, finally. “I'm sleeping, at least.” 

“That's good.” 

“Yeah.” 

They sit in comfortable silence. Listen to the children, the bird, the radio, as the number of cookies in the jar diminishes. Feel the sun on their faces. 

After a little while, Sana clears her throat again. 

“We saw Even last week.”

Isak's heart still clenches in pain at the mention of Even. But it's a less acute pain, now.

He still misses him. But he's stopped startling every time his phone buzzes. 

It helps that it's buzzing more often now. 

“Oh. How is he?” 

When Sana speaks her voice is slow and measured, like she's considering every word that comes out of her mouth. 

“Good, I think. Better. He seems… it might be the light, and the weather, but he seems happier.”

From behind closed eyes, Isak hears her shuffle a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. 

“They won the appeal.”

Even though Isak knows that Sana can't see him, he nods. Yeah. He knows. Of course he knows. He's still following along. 

“He… he asked about you.”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

Isak’s heart clenches. Underneath his skin – emanating from his chest, pooling in his fingertips – he feels the pulse of a current of electricity. 

How can it be that he's been thinking of Even more or less constantly for months now, and it still makes him sad to hear that Even is thinking of him? 

Because the last couple of months have been shit. Isak won't go as far as to say that they've been the worst for his life – because they haven't been, throughout his life there have been many months worse than these – but they haven't been good. They haven't been pleasant. They've been filled with sleepless nights and loneliness and regret – so much regret, over so much, so many words suddenly remembered at three a.m., so many choices examined, years too late. 

So much time spent missing Even. So much time working on letting him go. So much time spent convincing himself that it's not really Even he's missing, but the idea of him, the idea of a different life, of a life where he's content. 

Happy, even. 

He's slowly getting there. It's getting better. The pain isn't as acute, anymore. 

But he still doesn't want to imagine Even feeling like he's felt. 

So he doesn't ask Sana what he really wants to know. He doesn't ask what Even said, if he wants to see him, if she thinks he's missing Isak, too. He settles on knowing that Even is better. That he will, one day, be good. 

It's enough. 

It will be enough. 

But for now, his heart clenches; the electricity under his skin pulses. 

*

When Sana’s alarm rings a little while later, signalling that she has to start getting ready for her night shift, Isak takes it as his cue to leave. 

Sana smirks when he hoists the gym bag onto his shoulder. 

“This is still extremely weird.” 

“Which part?” Isak asks, but he knows what she means. It  _ is  _ weird. 

Sana laughs. 

“All of it!” 

They part with hugs and “see you on Saturday”, and Isak steps out into the setting sun. 

It's just on the side of too cool to wear a denim jacket. He should probably have worn his warmer coat for a few more weeks, but he couldn't resist buying it. 

It still doesn't feel entirely like him, but if he's honest with himself – and he really is trying to be more honest in general nowadays – that's not really the point. 

Magnus is warming up on the treadmill when Isak arrives – headphones plugged in, breath already heavy. Isak can't help that he feels a little relieved. That means they won’t have to talk as much as if they’d met in the changing room. Because even if this feels more and more normal every time they do this, Sana is right – it's still fucking weird. 

Just a couple of months ago, Magnus was the last person Isak wanted to hang out with. 

Working out was more or less the last thing he wanted to do. 

Now,  _ this  _ has somehow become a regular thing. 

It had been Isak’s therapist’s idea. Not the hanging out with Magnus part, but the working out part. She had thought it would be good for him – good for quieting his mind, good for his routine, good for breaking his isolation. He’d happened to mention it to Vilde – he still has to make the conscious decision to not think of it as making the mistake of telling Vilde – and suddenly, he’d been roped into a membership at Magnus’ gym and a steady workout partner. 

They’ve been at it for over a month, now. Twice a week. 

It’s not like they’ve become fast friends. Not like they talk, really. But they’ve settled into a nice, companionable silence, running on the treadmills next to each other, taking turns with the free weights. Spotting each other when they bench. 

Isak was surprised to find he liked it. The treadmill is a necessary evil, but the weights – he’s starting to grow pretty fond of them. 

He never understood Julian’s love of running. Never understood how he could spend hour upon hour, step after step after step, out of breath, tasting blood, in rain and snow and sleet and heat waves. 

But this. This he can do. Lifting weights doesn’t fire him up, doesn’t make his heart race, doesn’t make him feel like he’s being chased. Instead, it settles him. It is slow, and meticulous. Five sets of five reps. A few minutes of rest between each set, while Magnus works through his reps. It tires him out, makes his muscles ache for days, gloriously, so that he knows that he’s done something worthwhile. And the next time, he can squat a tiny bit more. 

It’s a simple, pure satisfaction. It’s what he needs right now. 

And Magnus… Magnus isn’t so bad, here. He’s still a bit loud, still a bit too outspoken for Isak’s taste – but he’s calmed down, a bit. Maybe it’s that he tires himself out, too. Maybe Vilde’s said something. Maybe it’s finally clicked for him that the jokes and the hugs don’t work for Isak.

Or maybe it’s Isak. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s less stressed, now. Wound a little less tightly – a little less likely to snap.

When they do talk – between sets, in the changing room, on their way to the tram, afterwards – they keep it light. The weather, the news. Magnus tells Isak about the precocious things Ella says. About how Aksel likes daycare. Isak tries to take an interest, tries to commit what he says to memory. He thinks he’s getting better at it. 

It’s happened a few times now that Magnus has started telling him a story about something that happened at work – only to stop in the middle of it. Pull back, retract. Excuse himself with neverminds and flustered subject changes. 

Each time, Isak is torn between being grateful, and frustrated. 

On the one hand, he isn’t sure yet how he’d react to hearing Julian be spoken of as just another coworker, another friend. Like he’s no one special. Inconsequential to Isak’s life. 

It doesn’t matter that that is exactly what he is. 

It still feels weird. 

They haven’t seen each other since Julian moved out. Haven’t talked to each other. When pushed, Vilde and Magnus have told him bits and pieces – Julian seems to be doing better, he’s found a new place, they hang out sometimes. But it’s clear that they think that both Isak and Julian are better off with some distance put between them. 

They could have chosen Julian over him. It would have been warranted. So Isak doesn’t pry. 

But he does wonder. 

* 

He’s been getting pretty good at not thinking of Even. Entire days have gone by when he’s only thought of him once or twice. 

He’s stopped thinking that it’s him every time his phone buzzes. Has stopped thinking that he’s going to come home one day to find Even waiting outside his door. 

(It was a stupid thought anyway. Even doesn’t know where he lives.) 

But he’ll be making dinner – nothing advanced, but still making dinner – chopping onions, or stirring a sauce, and he’ll catch himself hoping that Even’s eating properly. That he’s taking care of himself. 

He’ll be watching a show on Netflix, wondering as he goes through episode after episode if Even’s seen it, what it would be like to watch it with him. 

He’s been working on it, on not thinking about him. But in the last few days – ever since Sana told him that Even asked about him, he  _ asked about him _ – it’s all gone out the window. 

It’s Saturday, and for the first time in a while, Isak feels like he hasn’t slept a wink all night. He can’t seem to keep his hands still – spills his cornflakes, drips coffee on his robe. Struggles to button his shirt. 

The electricity pulsing through his veins seems to have been turned up to a higher voltage. When he pulls the charger out of his phone he’s almost afraid that he’ll get an electric shock. 

There’s a fluttering in his stomach that won’t settle no matter how many times he swallows. 

The doorbell rings, and despite knowing that it’s Jonas and Isabell, Isak almost drops the glass he’s holding. 

It actually hasn’t been that long since he saw Jonas, now – he had some conference in Oslo two months ago, and stayed on for an extra day after that. Slept on Isak’s almost unused fold out couch after staying too late and getting too drunk to go back to his parents’. 

It had felt good. It had felt necessary. 

And they’ve texted. They’ve called. Almost like they did when they were younger – memes and jokes and random thoughts. 

It almost feels like they never stopped. 

While Isabell uses the bathroom, Isak and Jonas end up in the sun soaked kitchen. Jonas scrutinizes him, knots his eyebrows together, and Isak is struck by how Jonas, even after all this time, seems to be able to read him like nothing at all. Like all his nerves are painted straight across his face. 

Or maybe it’s just because they’ve talked about this. Several times. 

“You okay?” 

Isak nods and swallows. The fluttering still won’t let up.

“Yeah.” 

From the hallway, they hear Isabell exiting the bathroom, calling out that they need to get moving. Jonas claps a hand on Isak’s shoulder as they leave. Isak tries to force the weight of it to ground him. It doesn’t seem to be working. 

*

The afternoon sun is still warm on their faces when they exit the car. Isak’s peacoat is too warm – but it would have been too weird to wear his denim jacket today. The grass surrounding the parking lot glows blue with scilla. By the entrance to the apartment building they’re greeted by a large urn of multicolored pansies. Music flows through an open balcony door, a few floors up.

Isak’s skin tingles. His stomach flutters. 

As Isabell calls up, Jonas sends him another look. 

_ Sure you’re fine? Just let me know if you want to leave. _

Isak sends him back a look of his own. Tries to smile. Swallows again. 

_ I’m sure. But thanks.  _

The intercom crackles, and Noora’s voice comes through. The lock on the door clicks open. 

When they enter the apartment, it’s already filled with people – mostly because it’s so small. An open plan kitchen and living room. A closed door that Isak assumes leads to the bedroom. A balcony. 

All the windows, and the balcony door, are open. The curtains flutter a little in the breeze.

They greet Noora with hugs and happy birthdays, and she gushes over their gift. She looks so different now. Bare lips. Soft clothes. Smiling. As she shows them the spread of food and supplies them with drinks, Isak can see Eva’s gaze following along – like she can’t quite manage to tear herself entirely away from Noora, not even for a little while. 

It’s not really a party, and that makes Isak both grateful and on the verge of panicking. A party – loud and dark and filled with pumping music – would have made it easier to hide. Here, there’s no way to escape. 

But it’s kind of nice. How Eva makes room for him on the sofa, introduces him to Chris and Mutta, who immediately pull him into uproarious conversation, filled with stories and impressions and funny faces and laughter that brings tears to all their eyes. On the other side of the room, Isabell is taking shameless silly selfies with Mikael and Adam, and Jonas, Noora and Sana have settled into deep conversation. 

And on the balcony, there’s Even. 

He’s out there with Yousef, and through the balcony door, Isak can see him smile. Can see the laugh lines around his eyes. His hair is softer, less styled, and the wind keeps trying to push in into his eyes, making Even retaliate by pulling his hand through, pushing it back. 

Isak’s fingertips spark with the memory of how that hair felt against them. He grips his glass tighter instead. Tries to make the cool surface calm them down. 

Even hasn’t looked at him. He’s trying not to look at Even.

When he had gotten the invitation, he had asked Noora several times if she was sure, absolutely sure, that Even would be okay with him there. She had told him that it’d be fine, but he still isn’t entirely convinced. In any case, the doesn’t want Even to be uncomfortable. To feel put on the spot.

But it is good to see him looking to happy. 

Somehow, they manage to avoid each other. They move around the apartment, like two planets circling each sun at different orbits. 

Isak can’t help but be aware of where Even is at all times. 

When Isak goes to the kitchen to refill his plate, Even is talking to Noora over by the bookcase. Isak goes out on the balcony to look at the view with Sana, and Even is talking to Eva, refilling his drink. Isak is swept into conversation by Adam and Mikael, and Even is on the couch with Jonas and Isabell. 

They never bump into each other, never have to talk to each other. But wherever he is, whoever he’s talking to, Isak hears Even’s voice. 

His laugh. 

“It was hilarious,” Adam is saying now, through laughter. “That other guy didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, Noora completely obliterated him. You should have been there!” 

Beside him, Mikael smiles adoringly, linking their fingers together. 

From across the room, Isak hears Even’s low hum.

He suddenly desperately needs to get away. Needs to be somewhere quiet, needs to find a way to force down the jealousy, the longing, the worry that, from nowhere, is threatening to overwhelm him. 

He definitely shouldn’t have been there. But it still feels weird – wrong – that he wasn’t. 

He manages to smile, and excuses himself for some air. 

On the balcony, the breeze is cooler than it was. It makes the skin on his arms prickle. He rests his forearms on the railing and breathes in, deeply. 

It helps, at least somewhat. 

This has gone better than he ever expected. He was only going to come for a short while – make an appearance, give Noora his congratulations, eat some cake. Get out as soon as possible. But he’s been here for hours, now. 

And he’s been having a good time. 

If he leaves now, no one will think anything of it. It would be the easy thing to do. Make up an excuse, go home, watch some tv. Be satisfied that he’s been more social in the last few weeks than he was for all of last year. He should do that. 

Behind him, the door to the balcony creaks open. 

A soft cough makes Isak turn around. 

“Hi,” Even says. 

He’s smiling, but it’s small and crooked. More like a cheek spasm than an actual smile. His hand is resting on the door handle. 

Like he doesn’t quite dare to let go. 

“Hi,” Isak parrots. 

Inside his chest, his heart is picking up speed. The breeze feels even cooler against the sweat that is breaking out on his neck. 

“Can I– is it okay if I come out here? With you?” 

Isak’s mind is screaming that of course it’s okay, that there’s nothing he would rather want – but outwardly, he can only manage to nod. 

The door creaks as Even pushes it closed. Through the window, Isak can see that everyone seems to have turned their backs to them. He isn’t sure if he’s more thankful or annoyed with them. 

Even leans on the railing beside him, staring straight ahead. 

Neither of them says anything. 

Isak’s mind is in uproar. The flutter in his stomach has picked up into a hailstorm. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. It would take a herculean effort just to form words right now. 

Even is right beside him – and still too far away. There is enough space between them that if Isak couldn’t see him, he wouldn’t know he was there. He can’t feel the warmth radiating from his skin, or hear his silent breaths. 

But he’s there. 

On the ground a little girl is blowing bubbles. They shimmer for a moment in the sunlight, before popping in the wind. 

The bubble around him and Even feels as just as fragile. He doesn’t dare speak for fear of popping it. 

“How are you?” Even says, at last, and the banality of it is liberating. Like they’re just two acquaintances, making small talk. 

“Good,” Isak nods, “You?” 

“Good.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Isak sees Even fold and unfold his hands. 

“You missed the appeal trial.” 

“Yeah.” Isak clears his throat. “I quit my job.” 

Even hums. Isak imagines the vibrations of it travelling from his belly against the railing to Isak’s arms. 

“Sana actually told me that.” Even runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes again. “I kind of made her tell me.”

“Oh.”  _ He asked about you.  _

“She wouldn't tell me anything else though. What you're doing now.” 

Isak shrugs his shoulders. It's a move that's almost starting to become natural now. Every time the question is asked, the panic bubbling inside him lessens a little. 

“I'm taking some time of. Trying to figure out what I want to do next.” 

The words still feel too practiced. Foreign. Like it's not Isak saying them, but someone else taking control of his voice. Actually being on a break has been good for him, but talking about it… He prefers not to. 

It still doesn’t feel like  _ him.  _ Like something he would do.

“But I heard you won, ” he says instead, trying to move the conversation onto steadier ground.

“Yeah.” The pride is clear in Even’s voice, and Isak has to turn his head, just a centimeter, not enough for it to be noticeable, but he has to see Even smile. “It was easier without you there. Fewer distractions.” 

Isak can’t help his surprised huff of laughter at that, and out of the corner of his eyes he sees Even’s smile widen. 

In his stomach, the storm still rages. 

This calm between them – it’s just a bubble of soap. Calm and pretty, but fragile. And just below the surface is everything that’s happened between them, everything Isak did to them.

He’s talked to Jonas about this. To Sana. To his therapist. What he would say, if he had the opportunity to apologise. If he had the chance to explain. 

He knows it won’t fix anything. Knows that he ruined whatever may have happened between him and Even before it even began. 

But he still wants him to know that he knows that, now. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“I… I wanted to say I'm sorry. For everything. For how I treated you… And Julian. I… I was wrong. And it's not an excuse, or anything, but I was in a really bad place, and I took it out on… On everyone else. You, Julian.” He nods towards the apartment. ”My friends.”

Even is looking straight at him now, and Isak wishes he could meet his eyes, wishes he could face him head on and say all of this, but he's not quite there yet. 

“I'm working on it, but. Yeah.”

Even nods, slowly. 

“Okay.”

Isak swallows, again. 

“Uhm. Anyway. I should go.” He pulls a hand through his hair, trying to make the weight of it on his head calm his mind. 

Even smiles, then, a small smile, but warm.

“Thank you.”

Isak smiles back. 

Even bites his lip, and his adam’s apple moves as he swallows. 

“I… I actually kind of missed talking to you,” he says, eyes slipping away from Isak’s face, down onto the ground. “Maybe… maybe we could try that again? If you want?” 

Isak’s smile is so big that his cheeks are straining. 

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that. Uhm, I’m going to go now, but you have my number, so. You can just call me?” 

Around Even’s eyes, smile lines finally appear. 

“I’ll do that.” 

*

When Isak exits Noora’s apartment building he feels light, like his feet are barely touching the ground. The pansies seem even brighter than when they arrived. The scilla even bluer. A bird sings to the setting sun. 

As he’s stepping out onto the street, he glances back up at Noora’s balcony. Even is still there, leaning on the railing. He’s too far away for Isak to see his face, but he hopes he's smiling. 

As Isak watches, Even takes a step back, removing his arms from the railing. 

In the pocket of his jacket, against the back of his hand, Isak feels his phone buzz with a call.

As he removes it from his pocket, he feels the familiar hope resurface.

This time, he's not disappointed. 

_ Even.  _


	16. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. The final chapter! A bit late, but hopefully you've been so busy reading Christmas fics that you haven't even noticed.
> 
> I've just been blown away by all the love this fic has received - I've treasured each and every comment, and kudos, and reblog, and I'm amazed by how many of you have read this. I couldn't have done this without you ❤ 
> 
> Eternal love to Smutfika - my best bud, and the best beta I could have asked for. I literally would not have even started this if not for you ❤❤❤  
> And my favorite picky elitist skandis, and sweetest Maugurt - thank you for your endless patience with my complaining, this would not have been the same without you ❤
> 
> And so, here it is. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for everything!

“Are you  _ fucking  _ kidding me?” Isak mutters below his breath, as their departure time is pushed forward another 45 minutes. 

Beside him, Even snorts out a giggle, and takes his hand. 

“Babe. Does it matter? We're on vacation, arriving a few hours later will have literally zero consequences. Besides, there's nothing we can do about it, so there's no reason to stress.”

Isak sighs. 

It still goes against all his instincts – to just sit here, instead of stalking up to the check-in counter and demanding some kind of compensation. Even if he knows Even is right. It doesn't matter. 

Even traces his knuckles with his thumb. Gives his hand a squeeze. 

“I'm going to go and see if they know anything new,” he says, and pushes off from the seat next to Isak. 

Isak watches him smile as he approaches the staff at the boarding gate. The frown on the woman's face smooths out in an instant. 

Several months in, and watching Even still makes his skin tingle. 

It's how he leans on the counter, giving the impression that he is genuinely interested in how the clerks are getting along. It's his unrelenting eye contact, his smile, a hand pulled through his hair, that draws a giggle or a concerned head tilt out of even the most weary service staff. 

And he makes it seem so effortless. 

Like it's just the way he is. Like there's no thought behind it. No calculation. 

Several months in, Isak knows better. 

How many months is up for debate. 

Do they count from the first time they met? In that case, they're coming up on eight. Or from when they started talking again, after Noora’s party? Then that would be a little over two. 

Or are they counting from when they officially, definitely, decided that they were a couple? 

Because they haven't actually done that. Yet. 

To Isak, the distinction is starting to feel slightly ridiculous. Ever since they started talking again, after Noora’s birthday, they haven't actually stopped. Haven't stopped texting, talking, thinking about each other.

For Even’s sake, he even got Snapchat. 

But he gets why it is important. To Even. The distinction.

Words matter, and they're taking things slow. 

Or – trying to, anyway. 

They're trying a lot of new things. New to the both of them. 

Even is trying to avoid getting too committed too soon. Isak is trying to wholeheartedly commit.

In any case, by now, Isak knows that this – this charm, this genuine likeability – isn't as effortless as Even makes it seem. 

It's not that Even doesn't like meeting new people. Over the past two months, Isak has watched as Even has befriended the lady in the apartment next door who his own, a woman whose name he himself didn't even know. Now, he never forgets to ask about her grandchildren. He's listened as Even's told him stories about the people he meets when offering free legal advice through the charity Elias works at. There seems to be a never ending stream of people just waiting to like his Instagram posts, write on his Facebook wall – and somehow, Even seems to be able to care about each and every one of them. Remember the details of their lives. 

But not without putting effort into it.

There are the Saturday afternoons when he's come over to Even’s, only to find him already in sweats, hood pulled up over wet hair, exhausted from listening to tragic life story after tragic life story, as much therapist as legal counsel. The nights when the neighbor traps them in the hall until their takeaway goes cold. The deep sighs when he really is too tired to come up with a pleasant response to a Facebook message, but still takes the time to write, lest the recipient thinks that Even no longer cares. 

Those are the nights when Isak wishes that Even could just care a little less. 

He knows that Even does, too. 

But it's a habit that's proven hard to break. It's just always been easier this way. Easier to charm his way through life than to have to deal with Sonja’s bad moods. Easier to go along to get along. To not make a fuss. 

Life's just nicer that way. Runs smoother. 

Easier to say yes than no. 

Nine days out of ten, that's one of the things that Isak admires most about Even. How much he cares, and not just about his friends and his family, but for the world. People he's never met. Will never meet  How much he inconveniences himself for others. 

He wishes, often, that he was more like Even. Kinder. More patient. Smoother, less prone to make fuss.

He knows that Even wishes, sometimes, that he was more like Isak. He finds it difficult to believe, but it's one of the things they've talked about, in the time since they've started, since they haven't stopped: that they have to trust each other. That they have to believe each other. That when one of them says something, the other one takes him at his word. 

No games. 

They don't have the patience for them anymore. 

So when Even tells Isak that he wishes, sometimes, that he was more like him – better at standing his ground, more certain in his convictions, more willing to do what it takes to achieve his goals – Isak does his best to believe him. Even when it goes against all his instincts. Even if he isn’t sure that that's who he is anymore. But Even lies on his side, in Isak’s bed, and pushes Isak's hair off his face and smiles, and Isak wants to be the person Even sees. It's a better person than he actually is. 

He's working on it. 

They're working on a lot of things. 

*

Since they started talking again, they haven’t stopped. 

It probably isn’t quantifiable, but sometimes Isak feels like he knows more about Even after two months than he ever did about Julian. 

He knows that he listens more to Even than he ever did to Julian. Cares more. 

The thought always makes his stomach twist with guilt.

Isak wants to know everything about Even – where he comes from, what his family is like, how he grew up. What he thinks, how he feels. But the knowledge that he never will – that he can never fully know Even – or any other person, or even himself, for that matter – doesn’t fill him with dread and uncertainty. Not now. 

It feels like an adventure. 

The first time they saw each other after Noora’s birthday – just for a walk, take away mugs in hand, nothing serious (and still the most serious, nerve wracking thing Isak can remember doing in a long time) – they had talked about the first time they met. 

Isak can’t remember who brought it up, but he assumes it must have been Even. 

“I knew who you were,” he had reminded him. “I thought maybe you knew who I was, too? That you were protecting… us. Giving us some plausible deniability.” He had laughed a little when saying it. Mirthlessly. Had taken a sip of his coffee. 

“I hated you for a while.” Isak can still hear Even’s voice echo in his head, tone neutral. Remembers burning his tongue on his own coffee, sitting on a damp bench with a view over Oslo. 

However valid, the words still stung. Still sting now, when he remembers. 

“I hated everyone, for a while. Yousef and Sana, for not telling me they knew you. Noora and Jonas for not telling me about… about Julian.” 

“What… what made you stop? Hating us?” Isak asks, meaning to say  _ hating me _ but not quite having the courage to do so. He can still feel how dry his mouth had been when he asked. The rough burn on his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

Even had shrugged. Pursed his lips. Taken another sip of his coffee. 

“I realised that I mostly hated myself. For not… realising. Seeing the signs. And then… I couldn’t get you out of my head. And when you weren’t at the trial, and Sana wouldn’t tell me anything… yeah. Here we are.” 

And he had smiled then, with his bottom lip between his teeth and crinkled eyes, and Isak had felt the tension in his shoulders melt away as he smiled back, powerless not to. 

“Here we are.”

*

Over by the counter, Even, still leaning against it, twists his upper body to be able to catch Isak's eye. When he does, he raises his eyebrows and makes an attempt to wink. Isak has to bite his bottom lip to keep himself from laughing at him. He still doesn't know if Even is aware that he can't wink, and is doing it to be cute, or if he actually thinks he looks suave. He's not sure he wants to know either. 

Another minute passes by, and then Even is striding back towards him, a smug smile on his face and two boarding passes in his hand. Isak raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. 

“I got us switched to another plane.” Even sounds extremely pleased with himself. “And upgraded. To economy plus.” 

“You – what? How?” Even seems so proud that Isak can't bear to remind him that just a few months ago, economy plus was a downgrade from him, for when business wasn't available. 

But that's not the point, anyway. 

Even bites his lip, and the gleam in his eyes is that of a kid who just got away with something he knows he shouldn't have done. 

“I  __ convinced them that you’re actually a foreign diplomat and that we’re on our way to a top secret meeting about the impending alien invasion.”

“What?!” Isak snorts out a laugh. “Really?!”

Even’s face breaks into a brilliant smile, eyes crinkling, showing off each and every one of his laugh lines. 

“No!” he giggles, and even if Isak makes a show of rolling his eyes at him, he can’t quite keep from smiling upon hearing what is arguably his favorite sound in the entire world. “There were seats free on another plane, and I paid the difference.” 

Oh. 

“You didn’t have to do that. We could have just waited.” 

Even raises his eyebrows and shrugs, as he has a tendency to do whenever Isak tries to tell him how wonderful he is. Isak hasn’t quite figured out yet if it’s genuine or an affectation. 

“It’s your birthday. I know you don’t want to spend it waiting for a plane that may never leave.” He grabs his bag from beside Isak and hoists it up on one shoulder. “But we have to go now, they’ve already started boarding.” 

By the time Isak’s scrambled to his feet and picked up his own bag, Even’s already walking towards their new gate. When he catches up to him, he has to grab his hand and stop him, just for a second. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles against Even’s lips, “thank you for doing this.” He can feel Even smile  as he kisses him, and he hopes he knows that this thank you is not just about the plane tickets. 

*

He had run into Julian a few weeks after that first walk. Completely by accident, completely unexpected, in a coffee shop neither of them used to go to. He hadn’t even noticed him at first – had been so engrossed in texting Even that it was only when he heard the customer in front of him ask for two coffees, to stay please, that he realised it was him. 

It had been awkward – stiff, superficial – but not as terrible as Isak had expected. When they had said goodbye Julian had walked over to a guy sending Isak murderous looks. But Julian had sat down beside him on the sofa, placed one of the coffees in front of him and put a hand on his arm, and he had burst into a brilliant smile. A few minutes later, when Isak grabbed his to go cup and started to weave his way through the crowd, he had thrown them another glance. They had seemed lost to their own little world. 

He had asked Magnus about it, later. Magnus had confirmed what he could tell just from looking at them. That Julian had a new boyfriend. That he was happy. In love. An old friend of Magnus’, apparently. 

He had upped his weights that day, trying to sweat out the sting of jealousy. 

He and Julian still haven’t talked, and by now, he isn’t sure they ever will. Somewhere along the way, too soon became too late, and he isn’t sure exactly when that happened. Getting in touch with him now… what would even be the point? Asking for forgiveness, sure, but that isn’t his to demand. 

He tries to settle, instead, for knowing that Julian is happier.

*

Isak keeps Even’s hand in his for as long as possible, right up until they get to boarding and he has to let it go to scan his ticket. When they’re seated and buckled in, he takes it again. Squeezes it a little. Even squeezes back, but his gaze is fixed firmly on the runway outside the window. With his back turned slightly towards Isak, he can see how he’s already squared his shoulders. 

The engines start to rumble. The ground vibrates beneath them. 

Even sighs. 

Isak threads their fingers together. Runs his thumb over Even’s knuckles. 

He knows Even is worried. That, as much as he wants to be there for Isak, he really doesn’t want to be  _ here. _

On a plane, hurtling through the atmosphere, inevitably, in little more than an hour, landing in Bergen. 

Even hasn’t been back since he moved. He’s coming up on a year soon. 

He’s told Isak – in the dark of his bedroom, hands under his head, Isak’s fingers drawing patterns on his arm – about the weeks after Sonja left. How every street seemed to be teeming with memories, things he hadn’t thought about in years, insignificant moments, really, but impossible to get away from, like a pattern woven into the fabric of the city. 

Their city. 

Where they had moved together. Made a home together. Grown up together. 

Bergen is steeped in Even and Sonja. 

And Sonja still lives there. 

Isak isn’t sure what is more painful to Even – he hasn’t dared to ask, and Even hasn’t put it into so many words, either – the risk of running into Sonja, and her new man, when they’re there, or the fact that she stayed. That for her, Bergen is just a city. That she can start over there – erase their years, cut out the threads of their lives in the city’s weave. 

That maybe they didn’t matter as much to her, as they did to him. 

Isak’s stomach had twisted upon hearing that. It had been all he could do to nod into his pillow. Keep drawing on Even’s arm. Swallow and swallow again, try to contain the guilt bubbling up from his stomach. 

He has no problem walking through Oslo. Doesn’t see Julian on every corner. Hasn’t been overcome with memories at the pharmacy. 

He still lives in the apartment they bought together. 

He tried to make the argument to himself that it’s different, but it’s not. They just didn’t matter as much to him as they did to Julian. 

He had been terrified when he told Even this, finally, several days later, while looking for perfectly ripe avocados at the grocery store. Even’s eyes had dimmed. The hand squeezing an avocado had stilled. 

For a second, everything had stopped breathing. 

Then Even had looked at him and smiled, and although it had been tinted with sadness, it had still made Isak’s skin tingle with relief. 

“But at least you know that,” Even had said. “That’s the difference. That you’re thinking about it.” 

For Even, Isak thinks, he’ll never stop thinking about it. 

*

For Even, he’ll never stop trying to be better. 

When he first learned that Even knew Sana’s brother, he couldn’t stop thinking of the years they could have had together. Of what could have been. In the bleak winter months when they were apart – as the white winter turned into a grey, wet March and nothing seemed to dry for weeks – that had been his biggest regret. That they had missed their chance. That if they had only met when they were younger – less damaged – their story could have turned out differently. 

They could have turned out differently. 

He still thinks that sometimes. And sometimes, he is grateful that they didn’t. 

What’s to say that they wouldn’t have made the same mistakes with each other as they did with Sonja and Julian? Overcommitted. Gone along without ever really stopping to think. To consider their own feelings. 

Isak has never believed in fate, but sometimes, he almost thinks that he can see a purpose to how they happened. 

Maybe a little damage can be a good thing. 

*

A flight attendant places paper mugs of steaming coffee in front of them. Outside, the sun is bright, the sky piercing blue. Below them, cumulus clouds bob along. 

Even presses milk into his coffee from the tiny carton. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, and Isak wishes he could smooth it out. He settles for bumping their shoulders together instead. 

“How are you doing?” 

Even shrugs, again, and lets out a noncommittal sound through his nose. 

“I have to go back sooner or later, I guess. And it’ll be good to see Jonas and Isabell. And the baby.” 

“Yeah.” Isak keeps his upper arm against Even’s. Beneath their tray tables, their knees touch. 

“But… yeah. I hope we don’t run into her. Or maybe it would be good to see her, I don’t know. Put it behind me.” 

Isak nods. 

“I think… maybe it’s a good thing? Maybe by now it won’t be so… raw. And you can replace the old memories with new ones.” He bumps Even’s shoulder again. “We can.” 

Even smiles a little at that, at least, and it is, as always, impossible for Isak not to smile back. 

“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” he adds, and it’s true, even if glad seems too small a word for it. He’s grateful. Amazed, that Even would put himself through this – for him. 

Even’s smile grows a little bigger.

“Of course,” he says, softly. “Me too.” 

“And we’ll just chill, yeah? Hang out with Jonas and Isabell. Or just alone. We don’t even have to leave the hotel room if we don’t want to.” 

Even cocks an eyebrow at that, and Isak has to roll his eyes at him. 

“Oh really?” 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” 

Even smiles for real this time, and his eyes crinkle as he leans in and pecks Isak on the lips. 

“I’m glad I’m coming with you too.” 

The fasten seatbelt sign pings. Below them, the sea glitters in dark blue, dotted with boats. Within minutes, the plane will screech to a halt on the runway, and they’ll exit together, find Jonas, and get ready to spend the weekend with their friends. 

There will be moments when Isak feels like it’s too much. That he just wants to get away from everything, plug in his earphones, be  _ alone.  _ There will be moments when Even is too accommodating, too sweet, too pleasant, and wears himself out. There will be moments when their pasts catch up with them. Not just this weekend, but in the weeks, months, years to come, as well. 

It's not that it doesn't matter. That it won't hurt sometimes. That there won't be moments when they doubt everything. 

But this is not one of those moments. 

In this moment, Isak is convinced: as long as they're there for each other – as long as they keep talking – they'll be fine. 


End file.
